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15  e 


THE  WINDOW-GAZER 


ISABEL  ECCLESTONE  MACKAY 


So  in  ye  matere  of  Life's  goodlie  showe 

Some  buy  what  doth  them  plese. 
While  others  stand  without e  and  gaze  thereinne-^ 

Your  eare,  good  folk,  for  these! 

Old  English  Rhyme. 


THE 

WINDOW -GAZER 


BY 

ISABEL  ECCLESTONE.MACKAY 

AUTHOR  OF  "mist  OF   MORNING,"   "UP  THE   HILL   AND  OVER, 

"the  shining  ship,"  etc. 


NEW  XEjr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1 921, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


M 
I-  in 


THE  WINDOW-GAZER  - 


lux^ 


090 


THE  WINDOW-GAZER 


pROFESSOR  SPENCE  sat  upon  an  upturned  keg  and 
^  shivered.  No  one  had  told  him  that  there  might  be 
fog  and  he  had  not  happened  to  think  of  it  for  himself. 
Still,  fog  in  a  coast  city  at  that  time  of  the  year  was  not 
an  unreasonable  happening  and  the  professor  was  a 
reasonable  man.  It  wasn't  the  fog  he  blamed  so  much  as 
the  swiftness  of  its  arrival.  Fifteen  minutes  ago  the 
world  had  been  an  ordinary  world.  He  had  walked  about 
in  it  freely,  if  somewhat  irritably,  following  certain  vague 
directions  of  the  hotel  clerk  as  to  the  finding  of  Johns- 
ton's wharf.  He  had  found  Johnston's  wharf;  extracted 
it  neatly  from  a  very  wilderness  of  whan^es,  a  feat  upon 
which  Mr.  Johnston,  making  boats  in  a  shed  at  the  end 
of  it,  had  complimented  him  highly. 

'There's  terrible  few  as  finds  me  just  ofY,"  said  Mr. 
Johnston.  ''Hours  it  takes  'em  sometimes,  sometimes 
days."  It  was  clear  that  he  was  restrained  from  adding 
"weeks"  only  by  a  natural  modesty. 

At  the  time,  this  emphasizing  of  the  wharf's  seclusion 
had  seemed  extravagant,  but  now  the  professor  wasn't 
so  sure.  For  the  wharf  had  again  mysteriously  lost  it- 
self. And  Mr.  Johnston  had  lost  himself,  and  the  city 
and  the  streets  of  it,  and  the  sea  and  its  ships  were  all 

7 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


lost — there  was  nothing  left  anywhere  save  a  keg  (of 
nails)  and  Professor  Benis  Hamilton  Spence  sitting  upon 
it.  Around  him  was  nothing  but  a  living,  pulsing  white- 
ness, which  pushed  momentarily  nearer. 

It  was  interesting.  But  it  was  really  very  cold.  The 
professor,  who  had  suffered  much  from  sciatica  owing 
to  an  injury  of  the  left  leg,  remembered  that  he  had  been 
told  by  his  medical  man  never  to  allow  himself  to  shiver ; 
and  here  he  was,  shivering  violently  without  so  much  as 
asking  his  own  leave.  And  the  fog  crept  closer.  He  put 
out  his  hands  to  push  it  back — and  immediately  his  hands 
were  lost  too.  "Really,"  murmured  the  professor,  *'this 
is  most  interesting!"  Nevertheless,  he  reclaimed  his 
hands  and  placed  them  firmly  in  his  coat  pockets. 

He  began  to  wish  that  he  had  stayed  with  Mr. 
Johnston  in  the  boat  shed,  pending  the  arrival  of  the 
launch  which,  so  certain  letters  in  his  pocket  informed 
him,  would  leave  Johnston's  wharf  at  5  o'clock,  or  there- 
abouts, Mondays  and  Fridays.  Mr.  Johnston  had  felt 
very  uncertain  about  this.  'Though  she  does  happen 
along  off  and  on,"  he  said  optimistically,  ''and  she  7mghf 
come  today.  Not,"  he  added  with  commendable  caution, 
''that  I'd  call  old  Doc.  Farr's  boat  a  'launch'  myself." 

"What,"  asked  Professor  Spence,  "would  you  call  her 
yourself  ?" 

"Don't  know  as  I  can  just  hit  on  a  name,"  said  Mr. 
Johnston.  "Doesn't  come  natural  to  me  to  be  free  with 
language." 

It  had  been  pleasant  enough  on  the  wharf  at  first  and 
certainly  it  had  been  worth  something  to  see  the  fog  come 
in.  Its  incredible  advance,  wave  upon  wave  of  massed 
and  silent  whiteness,  had  held  him  spellbound.  While  he 
had  thought  it  still  far  off,  it  was  upon  him — around  him, 
behind  him,  everywhere ! 

But  perhaps  it  would  go  as  quickly  as  it  had  come. 


T  II  E     W  I  N  D  ()  W  -  (;  A  Z  E  R 


He  had  heard  tliat  tliis  is  sometimes  a  eharacteristic  of 
fog.  Fortunately  he  had  already  selected  a  keg  upon 
which  to  sit,  so  with  a  patient  fatalism,  product  of  a  brief 
but  lurid  career  in  Flemish  trenches,  he  resigned  himself 
to  wait.  The  keg  was  dry,  that  was  something,  and  if  he 
spread  the  newspaper  in  his  pocket  over  the  most  sciatic 
part  of  the  shrapneled  leg  he  might  escape  with  nothing 
more  than  twinges. 

How  beautiful  it  was — this  salt  shroud  from  the  sea! 
How  it  eddied  and  funneled  and  whorled,  now  massing 
thick  like  frosted  glass,  now  thinning  to  a  web  of  tissue. 
Suddenly,  while  he  watched,  a  lane  broke  through.  He 
saw  clearly  the  piles  at  the  wharf's  end,  a  glimpse  of  dark 
water,  and,  between  him  and  it,  a  figure  huddled  in  a 
cloak — a  female  figure,  also  sitting  upon  an  upturned 
keg.     Then  the  magic  mist  closed  in  again. 

"How  the  deuce  did  she  get  there?"  the  professor 
asked  himself  crossly.  "She  wasn't  there  before  the  fog 
came."  He  remembered  having  noticed  that  keg  while 
choosing  his  own  and  there  had  been  no  woman  sitting  on 
it  then.  "Anyway,"  he  reflected,  "I  don't  know  her  and 
I  won't  have  to  speak  to  her."  The  thought  w^armed  him 
so  that  he  almost  forgot  to  shiver.  From  w^iich  you  may 
gather  that  Professor  Spence  was  a  bachelor,  compara- 
tively young;  that  he  was  of  a  retiring  disposition  and 
the  object  of  considerable  unsohcited  attention  in  his 
own  home  town. 

He  arose  cautiously  from  the  keg  of  nails.  It  might  be 
well  to  return  to  the  boatshed,  even  at  the  risk  of  falling 
into  the  Inlet.  But  he  had  not  proceeded  very  far  before, 
suddenly,  as  he  had  hoped  it  would,  the  mist  l>egan  to  lift. 
Sw'ifdy,  before  tlie  puff  of  a  warmer  breeze,  it  eddied  and 
thinned.  Its  soundless,  impalpable  pressure  lessened. 
The  wharf,  the  sea,  the  city  began  to  steal  back,  sly,  ex- 
pressionless, pretending  that  they  had  been  there  all  the 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


time.  Even  Mr.  Johnston  could  be  clearly  seen  coming 
down  from  the  boatshed  with  a  curious  figure  beside  him 
— a  figure  so  odd  and  unfamiliar  that  he  might  have  been 
part  of  the  unfamiliar  fog  itself. 

''Well,  you've  certainly  struck  it  lucky  today,"  called 
the  genial  Mr.  Johnston.  *This  here  is  Doc.  Farr's  boy. 
He's  going  right  back  over  there  now  and  he'll  take  you 
along — if  you  want  to  go." 

There  was  a  disturbing  cadence  of  doubt  in  the  latter 
part  of  his  speech  which  affected  the  professor's  always 
alert  curiosity,  as  did  also  the  appearance  of  the  "boy" 
reputed  to  belong  to  Dr.  Farr.  How  old  he  was  no 
one  could  have  guessed.  The  yellow  parchment  of  his 
face  was  ageless ;  ageless  also  the  inscrutable,  blank  eyes. 
Only  one  thing  was  certain— he  had  never  been  young. 
For  the  rest,  he  was  utterly  composed  and  indifferent, 
and  unmistakably  Chinese. 

*1  hope  there  is  no  mistake,"  said  Professor  Spence 
hesitatingly.  "Dr.  Farr  certainly  informed  me  that  this 
was  the  wharf  at  which  his  launch  usually — er — tied  up. 
But — there  could  scarcely  be  two  doctors  of  that  name, 
I  suppose?     It's  somew^hat  uncommon.'^ 

"Oh,  it's  him  you  want,"  assured  Mr.  Johnston.  "Only 
man  of  that  name  hereabouts.  Lives  out  across  the  Nar- 
rows somewheres.  Used  to  live  here  in  Vancouver  years 
ago  but  now  he  don't  honor  us  much.  Queer  old  skate ! 
They  say  he's  got  some  good  Indian  things,  though — if 
it's  them  you're  after?" 

The  professor  ignored  the  question  but  pondered  the 
information. 

"I  think  you  are  right.  It  must  be  the  same  person," 
he  said.     "But  he  certainly  led  me  to  expect " 

A  chuckle  from  the  boat-builder  interrupted  him.  "Ah, 
he'd  do  that,  all  right,"  grinned  Mr.  Johnston.  "They 
do  say  he  has  a  special  gift  that  way." 


T  H  E     \V  I  N  D  O  W  -  C;  A  Z  E  K 


"Well,  thank  you  very  much  anyway."  The  professor 
offered  his  hand  cordially.  ''And  if  we're  going,  we  had 
better  go." 

"You'll  l)e  a  tight  fit  in  the  laujtch/'  said  Mr.  Johnston. 
"Miss  Farr's  down  I  crc  somewhere.     I  saw  her  pass." 

''Miss  Farrr  The  professor's  ungallant  horror  was 
all  too  patent.  He  turned  haunted  eyes  toward  the  second 
nail  keg,  now  plainly  visible  and  unoccupied. 

"Missy  in  boat.  She  waitee.  No  likee!'*  said  the 
Chinaman,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"But,"  began  tlie  professor,  and  then,  seeing  the  ap- 
preciative grin  upon  Mr.  Johnston's  speaking  counte- 
nance, he  continued  blandly —  "Very  well,  let  us  not  keep 
the  lady  waiting.  Especially  as  she  doesn't  like  it.  Take 
this  bag,  my  man,  it's  light.    I'll  carry  the  other." 

With  no  words,  and  no  apparent  effort,  the  old  man 
picked  up  both  bags  and  shuffled  off.  The  professor 
followed.  At  the  end  of  the  wharf  there  were  steps  and 
beneath  the  steps  a  small  floating  platform  to  which  was 
secured  what  the  professor  afterwards  described  as  "a 
marine  vehicle,  classification  unknown."  Someone,  girl 
or  woman,  hidden  in  a  loose,  green  coat,  was  already 
seated  there.    A  pair  of  dark  eyes  looked  up  impatiently. 

"I  am  afraid  you  were  not  expecting  me,"  said  the  pro- 
fessor.    "I  am  Hamilton  Spence.     Your  father " 

"You're  getting  your  feet  wet,'*  said  the  person  in  the 
coat.     "Please  jump  in." 

The  professor  jumped.  He  hadn't  jumped  since  the 
sciatica  and  he  didn't  do  it  gracefully.  But  it  landed  him 
in  the  boat.  The  Chinaman  was  already  in  his  place.  A 
rattle  and  a  roar  arose,  the  air  turned  suddenly  to 
gasoline  and  they  were  off. 

"Has  it  a  name?"  asked  the  professor  as  soon  as  he 
could  make  himself  heard. 


12  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

"What?" 

The  professor  was  not  feeling  amiable.  '*It  might  be 
easier  to  refer  to  it  in  conversation  if  one  knewuts  name," 
he  remarked,  "  'Launch'  seems  a  trifle  misleading." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then,  'T  suppose 
'launch'  is  what  father  called  it,"  said  his  companion. 
He  could  have  sworn  that  there  was  cool  amusement  in 
her  tone.  *1  see  your  difficulty,"  she  went  on.  "But, 
fortunately,  it  has  a  name  of  its  own.  It  is  called  the 
Tillicum.'  " 

"As  such  I  salute  it !"  said  Spence,  gravely. 

The  other  made  no  attempt  to  continue  the  conversa- 
tion. She  retired  into  the  fastness  of  the  green  cloak, 
leaving  the  professor  to  ponder  the  situation.  It  seemed 
on  the  face  of  it  an  absurd  situation  enough,  yet  there 
should  certainly  be  nothing  absurd  in  it.  Spence  felt  a 
somewhat  bulky  package  of  letters  even  now  in  the 
pocket  of  his  co^t.  These  letters  were  real  and  sensible 
enough.  They  comprised  his  correspondence  with  one 
Dr.  Herbert  Farr,  Vancouver,  B.  C.  As  letters  they  were 
quite  charming.  The  earlier  ones  had  dealt  with  the 
professor's  pet  subject,  primitive  psychology.  The  later 
ones  had  been  more  personal.  Spence  found  himself  re- 
membering such  phrases  as  "my  humble  but  picturesque 
home,"  "my  Chinese  servant,  a  factotum  extraordinary,'* 
"my  young  daughter  who  attends  to  all  my  simple  wants" 
and  "my  secretary  on  whose  efficient  aid  I  more  and 
more  depend " 

"I  suppose  there  is  a  secretary?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"Oh  yes,"  answered  the  green  cloak,  "I'm  it." 

"And,  'a  young  daughter  who  attends' " 

" — 'to  all  my  simple  wants  ?'     That's  me,  too." 

"But  you  can't  be  *my  Chinese  servant,  a  factotum 
extraordinary?'  " 


THE     W  I  N  D  O  W  -  G  A  Z  E  R 


"No,  you  have  already  met  Li  Ho." 

"There?"  queried  the  professor,  gesturing  weakly. 

"Yes.* 

Spence  pulled  himself  together.  "There  must  be  a 
home,  though,"  he  asserted  firmly,  "  'Humble  but 
picturesque' " 

"Well,"  admitted  the  voice  from  the  green  cloak,  "it 
is  rather  picturesque.     And  it  is  certainly  humble." 

Suddenly  she  laughed.  It  was  a  very  young  laugh. 
The  professor  felt  relieved.  She  was  a  girl,  then,  not  a 
woman. 

"Isn't  father  too  amusing?"  she  asked  pleasantly. 

"Quite  too  much  so,"  agreed  the  professor.  He  was 
very  cold.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  added  stiffly,  re- 
membering his  manners. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind!"  The  girl  assured  him.  "Father 
is  a  dreadful  old  fraud.  I  have  no  illusions.  But  per- 
haps it  isn't  so  bad  after  all.  He  really  is  quite  an 
authority  on  the  West  Coast  Indians, — if  that  is  what 
you  wish  to  consult  him  about." 

Professor  Spence  was  in  a  quandary.  But  perfect 
frankness  seemed  indicated. 

"I  didn't  come  to  consult  him  about  anything,"  he  said 
slowly.  "I  am  a  psychologist.  I  wish  to  do  my  own  ol> 
serv'ing,  at  first  hand.  I  came  not  to  question  Dr.  Farr, 
but  to  board  with  him." 

''Board  with  hifnr 

In  her  heartfelt  surprise  the  girl  turned  to  him  and  he 
saw  her  face,  young,  arresting,  and  excessively  in- 
dignant. 

"Quite  so,"  he  said.  "Do  not  excite  yourself.  I  per- 
ceive the  impossibility.  I  can't  have  you  attending  to  my 
wants,  however  simple.  Neither  can  I  share  the  services 
of  a  secretary  whose  post,  I  gather,  is  an  honorary  one. 


14  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

But  I  simply  cannot  go  back  to  Mr.  Johnston's  grin :  so 
if  you  can  put  me  up  for  the  night " 

She  had  turned  away  again  and  was  silent  for  so  long 
that  Spence  became  uneasy.     But  at  last  she  spoke. 

'This  is  really  too  bad  of  father!  He  has  never  done 
anything  quite  as  absurd  as  this  before.  I  don't  quite  see 
what  he  expected  to  get  out  of  it.  He  might  know  that 
you  would  not  stay.  He  wouldn't  want  you  to  stay.  I 
can't  understand — unless,"  her  voice  became  crisp  with 
sudden  enlightenment,  "unless  you  were  foolish  enough 
to  pay  in  advance!     Surely  you  did  not  do  that?" 

The  professor  was  observing  his  boots  in  an  abstracted 
way. 

'T  am  afraid  my  feet  are  very  wet,"  he  remarked. 

'They  are.  They  are  resting  in  at  least  an  inch  of 
water,"  she  said  coldly.  ''But  that  isn't  answering  my 
question.    Did  you  pay  my  father  anything  in  advance?" 

The  professor  fidgeted. 

"A  small  payment  in  advance  is  not  very  unusual,"  he 
offered.  "Especially  if  one's  prospective  host  is  anxious 
to  add  a  few  little  unaccustomed  luxuries " 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  interrupted  rudely.  *T  recognize  the 
phrase!"  Without  looking  up  he  felt  her  wrathful  gaze 
upon  his  face.  "It  means  that  father  has  simply  done 
you  brown.  Oh,  well,  it's  your  own  fault.  You're  old 
enough  to  know  your  way  about.  And  the  luxuries  you 
will  enjoy  at  our  place  will  certainly  be  unaccustomed 
ones.    Didn't  you  even  ask  for  references  ?" 

Her  tone  irritated  the  professor  unaccountably. 

"Are  we  nearly  there?"  he  asked,  disdaining  to  answer. 
"I  am  extremely  cold." 

"You  will  have  a  nice  climb  to  warm  you,"  she  told  him 
grimly,  "all  up  hill!" 

"  'A  verdant  slope,'  "  quoted  the  professor  sweetly, 
"  'rising  gently  from  salt  water  toward  snowclad  peaks, 


T  II  K     \y  I  N  D  C)  W  -  G  A  Z  E  R 


which,  far  away, — '  "    They  caught  each  other's  eyes  and 
laughed. 

"Here  is  our  landing,"  said  the  girl  quite  cheerfully. 
"And  none  too  soon!  I  suppose  you  haven't  noticed  it, 
but  the  'Tillicuni'  is  leaking  like  a  sieve!" 


n 

SALT  in  the  air  and  the  breath  of  pine  and  cedar  are 
excellent  sleep  inducers.  Professor  Spence  had  not 
expected  to  sleep  that  night ;  yet  he  did  sleep.  He  awoke 
to  find  the  sun  high.  A  great  beam  of  it  lay  across  the 
foot  of  his  camp  cot,  bringing  comforting  warmth  to  the 
toes  which  protruded  from  the  shelter  of  abbreviated 
blankets.  The  professor  wiggled  his  toes  cautiously. 
He  was  accustomed  to  doing  this  before  making  more 
radical  movements.  They  were  a  valuable  index  to  the 
state  of  the  sciatic  nerve.  This  morning  they  wiggled 
somewhat  stiffly  and  there  were  also  various  twinges. 
But  considering  the  trying  experiences  of  yesterday  it 
was  surprising  that  they  could  wiggle  at  all.  He  lifted 
himself  slowly — ^and  sank  back  with  a  relieved  sigh.  It 
would  have  been  embarrassing,  he  thought,  had  he  not 
been  able  to  get  up. 

All  men  have  their  secret  fears  and  Professor  Spence's 
secret  fear  was  embodied  in  a  story  which  his  friend  and 
medical  adviser  (otherwise  "Old  Bones")  had  seen  fit 
to  cite  as  a  horrible  example.  It  concerned  a  man  who 
had  sciatica  and  who  didn't  take  proper  care  of  him- 
self. One  day  this  man  went  for  a  walk  and  fell  sud- 
denly upon  the  pavement  unable  to  move  or  even  to  ex- 
plain matters  satisfactorily  to  a  heartless  policeman  who 
insisted  that  he  was  drunk.  The  doctor  had  laughed  over 
this  story;  doctors  are  notoriously  inhuman.  The  pro- 
fessor had  laughed  also,  but  the  possible  picture  of  him- 
self squirming  helplessly  before  a  casually  interested  pub- 
lic had  terrors  which  no  enemies'  shrapnel  had  ever  been 
able  to  inspire. 

16 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  17 


Well,  thaiik  heaven  it  hadn't  happened  yet!  The  pro- 
fessor confided  his  satisfaction  to  an  inquisitive  squirrel 
which  swung,  bright  eyed,  from  a  branch  which  swept 
the  window,  and,  sitting  up,  prepared  to  take  stock  of 
the  furnishings  of  his  room.  A  grim  smile  signalled  his 
discovery  that  there  were  no  furnishings  to  take  stock 
of.  Save  for  his  camp  bed,  an  affair  of  stout  canvas 
stretched  between  crossed  legs,  the  room  was  l^eauti  fully 
bare.  Not  a  chair,  not  a  wash-stand,  not  a  tal)le  cum- 
bered it — unless  a  round,  fiat  tree  stump,  which  looked 
as  if  it  might  have  grown  up  through  the  floor,  was  in- 
tended for  both  washstand  and  table.  It  had  served  the 
latter  purpose  at  any  rate  as  upon  it  rested  the  candle- 
stick containing  the  solitary  candle  by  which  he  had  got 
himself  to  bed. 

"Single  room,  without  bath,*'  murmured  the  profes- 
sor.    "Oh,  if  my  Aunt  Caroline  could  see  me  now !" 

Oddly  enough,  something  in  the  thought  of  Aunt  Caro- 
line seemed  to  have  a  reconciling  effect  upon  Aunt 
Caroline's  nephew.  He  lay  back  upon  his  one  thin  pil- 
low and  reviewed  his  position  with  surprising  fortitude. 
After  all,  Aunt  Caroline  couldn't  see  him — and  that  was 
something.  Besides,  it  had  been  an  adventure.  It  was 
surprising  how  he  had  come  to  look  for  adventures  since 
that  day,  five  years  ago,  when  the  grim  adventure  of 
w^ar  had  called  him  from  the  peace-filled  beginnings  of 
what  he  had  looked  forward  to  as  a  life  of  scliolarly 
leisure.  He  had  been  thirty,  then,  and  quite  done  with 
adventuring.  Now  he  was  thirty-five  and — well,  he  sup- 
posed the  war  had  left  him  restless.  Presently  he  would 
settle  down.  He  would  begin  his  great  book  on  the 
"Psychology  of  Primitive  Peoples."  Everything  would 
be  as  it  had  been  before. 

But  in  the  meantime  it  insisted  upon  being  somewhat 
different — hence  this  feeling  which  was  not  all  dissat- 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


isfaction  with  his  present  absurd  position.  He  was,  he 
admitted  it,  a  badly  sold  man.  But  did  it  matter?  What 
had  he  lost  except  money  and  self-esteem?  The  money 
did  not  matter  and  he  was  sure  that  Aunt  Caroline,  at 
least,  would  say  that  he  could  spare  the  self-esteem. 
Besides,  he  would  recover  it  in  time.  His  opinion  of 
himself  as  a  man  of  perspicacity  in  business  had  recoA^- 
ered  from  harder  blows  than  this.  There  was  that  af- 
fair of  the  South  American  mines,  for  instance, — but 
anybody  may  be  mistaken  about  South  American  mines. 
He  had  told  Aunt  Caroline  this.  "It  was,"  he  told  Aunt 
Caroline,  ''a  financial  accident.  I  do  not  blame  myself. 
My  father,  as  you  know,  was  a  far-sighted  man.  These 
aptitudes  run  in  famihes."  Aunt  CaroUne  had  said, 
"Humph!" 

Nevertheless  it  was  true  that  the  elder  Hamilton 
Spence,  now  deceased,  had  been  a  far-sighted  man. 
Benis  had  always  cherished  a  warm  admiration  for  the 
commercial  astuteness  which  he  conceived  himself  to 
have  inherited.  He  would  have  been,  he  thought,  exactly 
like  his  father — if  he  had  cared  for  the  drudgery  of 
business.  So  it  was  a  habit  of  his,  when  in  a  quandary, 
to  consider  what  his  parent  would  have  done  and  then 
to  do  likewise — an  excellent  rule  if  he  had  ever  succeeded 
in  applying  it  properly.  But  there  were  always  so  many 
intruding  details.  Take  the  present  predicament,  for 
instance.  He  could  scarcely  picture  his  father  in  these 
precise  circumstances.  To  do  so  would  be  to  presuppose 
actions  on  the  part  of  that  astute  ancestor  quite  out  of 
keeping  with  his  known  character.  W^ould  Hamilton 
Spence,  senior,  have  crossed  a  continent  at  the  word  of 
one  of  whom  he  knew  nothing,  save  that  he  wrote  an 
agreeable  letter?  Would  he  have  engaged  (and  paid  for 
in  advance)  board  and  lodging  at  a  place  wholly  sup- 
posititious?    Would  he  have  neglected  to  ask  for  refer- 


T  H  E     W  I  N  D  O  W  -  (;  A  Z  E  H  19 

ences?  Hamilton  Spcncc,  junior,  was  forced  to  admit 
that  he  would  not. 

But  those  letters  of  old  Farr  had  Ix^cn  so  blamed 
plausible ! 

Well,  anyhow,  he  would  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
and  outfacing  the  old  rascal.  This  satisfaction  he  had 
expected  the  night  before.  But  upon  their  arrival  at  the 
"picturesc^ue  though  humble"  cottage  (after  a  climb  at 
the  memory  of  which  his  leg  still  shuddered),  it  was 
found  that  Dr.  Farr  was  not  at  home. 

*'He  has  probably  gone  *up  trail,'  "  Miss  Farr  had 
said  casually,  ''and  in  that  case  he  won't  be  back  until 
morning." 

''Did  you  say  upT'  The  professor's  voice  held  in- 
credulity. Whereupon  his  hostess  had  most  unkindly 
smiled:  "You're  not  much  of  a  walker,  are  you?"  was 
her  untactful  comment. 

"My  leg "    He  had  actually  begun  to  tell  her  about 

his  leg!  Luckily  her  amused  shrug  had  acted  as  a  pe- 
riod. He  felt  ver}^  glad  of  this  now.  To  have  admitted 
weakness  would  have  been  weak  indeed.  For  the  girl 
was  so  splendidly  strong!  Only  a  child,  of  course,  but 
so  finely  moulded,  so  superbly  strung — light  and  lithe. 
How  she  had  swung  up  the  trail,  a  heavy  packet  in  either 
hand,  with  scarcely  a  quickened  breath  to  tell  of  the  ef- 
fort !  Her  face  ? — he  tried  to  recall  her  face  but  found 
it  provokingly  elusive.  It  was  a  young  face,  but  not 
youthful.  The  distinction  seemed  strained  and  yet  it 
was  a  real  distinction.  The  eyes  were  grey,  he  thought. 
The  eyebrows  very  fine,  dark  and  slanted  slightly,  as  if 
left  that  way  by  some  unanswered  question.  The  nose 
was  straight,  delightful  in  profile.  The  mouth  too  firm 
for  a  face  so  young,  the  chin  too  square — perhaps.  But 
even  as  he  catalogued  the  features  the  face  escaped  him. 
He  had  a  changing  impression,  only,  of  a  graceful  con- 


20  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

tour,  warm  and  white,  dark  careless  eyes,  and  hair — 
quantities  of  hair  lying  close  and  smooth  in  undulated 
waves — its  color  like  nothing  so  much  as  the  brown  of 
a  crisping  autumn  leaf.  He  remembered,  though,  that 
she  was  poorly  dressed — and  utterly  unconscious,  or  care- 
less, of  being  so.  And  she  had  been  amused,  undoubt- 
edly amused,  at  his  annoyance.  A  most  unfeminine  girl! 
And  that  at  least  was  fortunate — for  he  was  very,  very 
weary  of  everything  feminine! 


Ill 

VT'AWNINGLY,  the  professor  reached  for  his  watch. 
-*■     It  had  run  down. 

^'Evidently  they  do  not  wake  guests  for  breakfast," 
he  mused.  "Perhaps,"  with  rising  dismay,  "there  isn't 
any  breakfast  to  wake  them  for!" 

He  feh  suddenly  ravenous  and  hurried  into  his 
clothes.  It  is  really  wonderful  how  all  kinds  of  prob- 
lems give  place  to  the  need  for  a  wash  and  breakfast. 
Somewhere  outside  he  could  hear  water  running,  so  with 
a  towel  over  his  arm  and  a  piece  of  soap  in  his  pocket 
he  started  out  to  find  it.  His  room,  as  he  had  noted 
the  night  before,  w^as  one  of  two  small  rooms  under  the 
eaves.  There  was  a  small,  dark  landing  between  them 
and  a  steep,  ladderlike  stair  led  directly  down  into  the 
living-room.  There  was  no  one  there ;  neither  w^as  there 
anyone  in  the  small  kitchen  at  the  back.  Benis  Spence 
decided  that  this  second  room  was  a  kitchen  because  it 
contained  a  cooking  stove.  Otherwise  he  would  not 
have  recognized  it.  Aunt  Caroline's  idea  of  a  kitchen 
being  quite  otherwise.  Someone  had  been  having  break- 
fast on  a  comer  of  the  table  and  a  fire  crackled  in  the 
stove.  Window  and  door  were  open,  and  leafy,  ferny 
odors  mingled  with  the  smell  of  burning  cedar.  The 
combined  scent  was  very  pleasant,  but  the  professor 
could  have  wished  that  the  bouquet  of  coffee  and  fried 
bacon  had  been  included.  He  was  quite  painfully 
hungry. 

Through  the  open  door  the  voice  of  falling  water  still 
called  to  him  but  of  other  and  more  human  voices  there 
were  none.     Well,  he  could  at  least  wash.     With  a  shrug 

21 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


he  turned  away  from  the  half  cleared  table  and,  in  the 
doorway,  almost  ran  into  the  arms  of  a  little,  old  man 
in  a  frock  coat  and  a  large  umbrella.  There  were  other 
items  of  attire,  but  they  did  not  seem  to  matter. 

''My  dear  sir,"  said  the  little,  old  man,  in  a  gentle, 
gurgling  voice.  ''Let  me  make  you  welcome — very,  very 
welcome !" 

'Thank  you,"  said  the  professor. 

There  were  other  things  that  he  might  have  said,  but 
they  did  not  seem  to  suggest  themselves.  All  the  smooth 
and  biting  sentences  which  his  mind  had  held  in  readi- 
ness for  this  moment  faded  and  died  before  the  stunning 
knowledge  of  their  own  inadequacy.  Surprise,  pure  and 
simple,  stamped  them  down. 

''Unpardonable,  my  not  being  at  home  to  receive  you," 
went  on  this  amazing  old  gentleman.  "But  the  exact 
time  of  your  coming  was  somewhat  indefinite.  Still,  I 
am  displeased  with  myself,  much  displeased.  You  slept 
w^ell,  I  trust?" 

The  professor  was  understood  to  say  that  he  had 
slept  w^ell. 

Dr.  Farr  sighed.  "Youth !"  he  murmured,  waving  his 
umbrella.     "Oh,  youth!" 

"Quite  so,"  said  the  professor.  There  was  a  dryness 
in  his  tone  not  calculated  to  encourage  rhapsody.  The 
old  gentleman's  gurgle  changed  to  a  note  of  practical 
helpfulness. 

"You  wish  to  bathe,  I  see.  I  will  not  detain  you. 
Our  sylvan  bathroom  you  will  find  just  down  the  trail 
and  behind  those  alders.  Pray  take  your  time.  You 
will  be  quite  undisturbed." 

With  another  dry  "Thank  you,"  the  professor  passed 
on.  He  was  limping  slightly,  otherwise  he  would  have 
passed  on  much  faster.  His  instinct  was  to  seek  cover 
before  giving  vent  to  the  emotion  which  consumed  him. 


T  n  E    \\'  I  \  I)  ()  ^^' -  (r  a  z  k  r  23 

Behind  the  alders,  and  taking  the  precaution  of  stuffing 
his  mouth  with  a  towel,  he  could  release  this  rising  gust 
of  almost  hysterical  laughter. 

That  was  Dr.  Herbert  Farr!  The  fulfilled  vision  of 
the  learned  scholar  he  had  come  so  far  to  see  capped  with 
nicety  the  climax  of  this  absurd  adventure.  What  an 
utter  fool,  what  an  unbelievable  idiot  he  had  made  of 
himself!  For  the  moment  he  saw  clear  and  all  normal 
reactions  proved  inadequate.  There  was  left  only 
laughter. 

When  this  was  over  he  felt  better.  Withdrawing  the 
towel  and  wiping  the  tears  of  strangled  mirth  from  his 
eyes  he  looked  around  him.  The  sylvan  bathroom  was 
indeed  a  charming  place.  Great  rocks,  all  smooth  and 
brown  with  velvet  moss,  cun^ed  gently  down  to  form  a 
basin  into  which  fell  the  water  from  the  tiny  stream 
whose  musical  flowing  had  called  to  him  through  his 
window.  Around,  and  somewhat  back  beneath  tall  sen- 
tinel trees,  crept  the  bushes  and  bracken  of  the  moun- 
tain ;  but,  above,  the  foliage  opened  and  the  sun  shone 
in,  turning  the  brown-green  water  of  the  pool  to  gold. 
With  a  sigh  of  pure  delight  the  laughter-weary  profes- 
sor stepped  into  its  cool  brightness — and  with  a  gasp 
of  something  very  different,  stepped  quickly  out  again. 
But,  quick  as  he  was,  the  liquid  ice  of  that  green-gold 
pool  was  quicker.  It  ran  through  his  tortured  nerve  like 
mounting  fire — "Oh — oh — damn!"  said  the  professor 
heartily. 

The  sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead  before  he  had 
rubbed  and  warmed  the  outraged  limb  into  some  sem- 
blance of  quietude  again.  The  pool  seemed  no  longer 
lovely.  Very  gingerly  he  completed  such  ablutions  as 
were  strictly  necessary  and  then,  very  cold,  very  stiff 
and  very,  very  empty  he  turned  back  toward  the  house. 

This  time,  instead  of  passing  through  the  small  vege- 


24  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


table  garden  behind  the  kitchen,  he  skirted  the  clearing, 
coming  out  into  the  wide,  open  space  in  front  of  the  cot- 
tage. On  one  side  of  him,  and  behind,  spread  the  moun- 
tain woods  but  before  him  and  to  the  right  the  larger 
trees  were  down.  There  was  a  vista — for  the  first  time 
since  he  had  sat  upon  a  keg  in  the  fog  he  forgot  him- 
self and  his  foolishness,  his  hunger,  his  aching  nerves, 
his  smarting  pride,  everything!  The  beauty  before  him 
filled  his  heart  and  mind,  leaving  not  a  cranny  anywhere 
for  lesser  things.  Blue  sea,  blue  sky,  blue  mountains, 
blue  smoke  that  rose  in  misty  spirals  as  from  a  thousand 
fairy  fires  and,  nearer,  the  sun-warmed,  dew-drenched 
green — green  of  the  earth,  green  of  the  trees,  green  of 
the  graceful,  sweeping  curves  of  w^ooded  point  and  bay. 
Far  away,  on  peaks  half  hidden,  snow  still  lay — a  white- 
ness so  ethereal  that  the  gazer  caught  his  breath. 

And  with  it  all  there  was  the  scent  of  something — 
something  so  fresh,  so  penetrating,  so  infinitely  sweet 
— what  could  it  be? 

"Ambrosia!"  said  Benis  Spence,  imconscious  that  he 
spoke  aloud. 

*'Balm  of  Gilead,"  said  a  practical  voice  beside  him. 
'Tt  smells  like  that  in  the  bud,  you  know." 

''Does  it?"  The  professor's  tone  was  dreamy. 
"Honey  and  wine — that's  what  it's  like — honey  and  wine 
in  the  wilderness!  You  didn't  tell  me  it  would  be  like 
this,"  he  added,  turning  abruptly  to  his  companion  of  the 
night  before. 

"How  could  I  tell  what  it  would  be  like — to  you?" 
asked  the  girl.  "It's  different  for  everyone.  I've  known 
people  stand  here  and  think  of  nothing  but  their  break- 
fast." 

At  the  word  "breakfast"  (which  had  temporarily 
slipped   from   his  vocabulary)    the   famished  professor 


THE     W  I  N  D  O  W  -  G  A  Z  E  R 


wheeled  so  quickly  that  his  knee  twisted.  Miss  Farr 
smiled,  her  cool  and  too-understanding  smile. 

"There's  something  to  eat,"  she  said.     "Come  in." 

She  did  not  wait  for  him  but  walked  off  quickly.  The 
professor  followed  more  slowly.  The  path,  even  the 
front  path,  was  rough  (he  had  noticed  that  last  night) ; 
but  the  cottage,  seen  now  with  the  glamour  of  its  out- 
look still  in  his  eyes,  seemed  not  quite  so  impossible  as 
he  had  thought.  The  grace  of  early  spring  lay  upon 
it  and  all  around.  True,  it  was  small  and  unpainted  and 
in  bad  repair,  but  its  smallness  and  its  brownness  seemed 
not  out  of  keeping  with  the  mountain-side.  Its  narrow 
veranda  was  railed  by  unbarked  branches  from  the  cedars. 
Its  walls  were  rough  and  weather-beaten,  its  few  win- 
dows, broad  and  low.  The  door  was  open  and  led  di- 
rectly into  the  living  room  whence  his  hostess  had  pre- 
ceded him. 

The  marvellous  scent  of  the  morning  was  everywhere. 
The  room,  as  he  went  in,  seemed  full  of  it.  Not  such 
a  bad  room,  either,  not  nearly  so  comfortless  as  he  had 
thought  last  night.  There  was  a  fireplace,  for  instance, 
a  real  fireplace  of  cobble-stones,  for  use,  not  ornament; 
a  long  table  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  an  old  fash- 
ioned sofa  sprawled  beneath  one  of  the  windows.  There 
was  a  dresser  at  one  end  with  open  shelves  for  china  and, 
at  the  other,  a  book -case,  also  open,  filled  with  old  and 
miscellaneous  books.  .  .  . 

And,  best  and  most  encouraging  of  all,  there  was  break- 
fast on  the  table. 

*T  told  Li  Ho  to  give  you  eggs,"  said  Miss  Farr.  *Tt 
is  the  one  thing  we  can  be  sure  of  having  fresh.  Do 
you  like  eggs?" 

The  professor  liked  eggs.  He  had  never  liked  eggs 
so  well  before,  except  once  in  Flanders — he  looked  up 
to  thank  his  hostess,  but  she  had  not  waited.     Never- 


26  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

theless  the  breakfast  was  very  good.  Not  until  he  had 
finished  the  last  crumb  of  it  did  he  notice  that  the  com- 
fort of  the  place  was  more  apparent  than  real.  The 
table  tipped  whenever  you  touched  it.  The  chair  upon 
which  he  sat  had  lost  an  original  leg  and  didn't  take 
kindly  to  its  substitute.  The  china  was  thick  and  chipped. 
The  walls  were  unfinished  and  draughty,  the  ceiling  ob- 
viously leaked.  There  had  been  some  effort  to  keep  the 
place  livable,  for  the  faded  curtains  were  at  least  clean 
and  the  floor  swept — but  the  blight  of  decay  and  pov- 
erty lay  hopelessly  upon  it  all. 

And  what  was  a  young  girl — a  girl  with  level  eyes  and 
lifted  chin — doing  in  this  galley?  .  .  .  Undoubtedly  the 
less  he  bothered  himself  about  that  question  the  better. 
This  young  person  was  probably  just  as  she  wished  to 
appear,  careless  and  content.  And  in  any  case  it  was 
none  of  his  business. 

The  sensible  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  pack  his  bag 
and  turn  his  back — the  absurd  old  man  with  the  umbrella 
.  .  .  pshaw!  .  .  .  He  wouldn't  go  home,  of  course. 
Aunt  Caroline  would  say  'T  told  you  so"  .  .  .  no,  she 
wouldn't  say  it — she  would  look  it,  which  was  worse 
...  he  had  come  away  for  a  rest  cure  and  a  rest  cure 
he  intended  to  have  .  .  .  with  a  groan  he  thought  of 
the  pictures  he  had  formed  of  this  place,  the  comfortable 
seclusion,  the  congenial  old  scholar,  the  capable  secretary, 
the — he  looked  up  to  find  that  Miss  Farr  had  returned 
and  was  regarding  him  with  a  cool  and  pleasantly  aloof 
consideration. 

"Are  you  wondering  how  soon  you  may  decently 
leave?"  she  inquired.     ''We  are  not  at  all  formal  here. 

And,  of  course "  her  shrug  and  gesture  disposed  of 

all  other  matters  at  issue.  ''Yours  are  the  only  feelings 
that  need  to  be  considered.  I  should  like  to  know, 
though,"  she  continued  with  some  warmth  of  interest, 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  27 

*'if  you  really  came  just  to  observe  Indians.  Father 
might  think  of  a  variety  of  attractions.  Health? — any- 
thing from  gout  to  tuberculosis.  Fish? — father  can  talk 
about  fish  until  you  actually  see  them  leaping.  Shooting? 
— according  to  father,  all  the  animals  of  the  ark  abound 
in  these  mountains.  Curios? — father  has  an  Indian 
mound  somewhere  which  he  always  keeps  well  stocked." 

Professor  Spence  smiled.  "So  many  activities,"  he 
said,  "should  bring  better  results." 

"They  are  too  well  kno-wn.  ]\Iost  people  make  some 
inquiry."  The  faint  emphasis  on  the  "most"  made  the 
professor  feel  uncomfortable.  Was  it  possible  that  this 
young  girl  considered  him,  Benis  Spence,  something  of 
a  fool?     He  dismissed  the  idea  as  unlikely. 

"Inquiry  in  my  case  would  have  meant  delay,"  he 
answered  frankly,  "and  I  was  in  a  hurry.  I  wanted  to 
get  away  from — I  wanted  to  get  away  for  rest  and  study 
in  a  congenial  environment.  Still,  I  will  admit  that  I 
might  not  have  inquired  in  any  case.  I  am  accustomed 
to  trust  to  my  instinct.  My  father  w^as  a  very  far- 
sighted  man — what  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"Nothing.  Only  it  sounded  so  much  like  'neverthe- 
less, my  grandsire  drew  a  long  bow  at  the  battle  of 
Hastings' — don't  you  remember,  in  'Ivanhoe?'  " 

The  professor  sighed.  "I  have  forgotten  Tvanhoe,'  " 
he  said,  "which  means,  I  suppose,  that  I  have  forgotten 
youth.  Sometimes  its  ghost  walks,  though.  I  think  it 
was  that  which  kept  me  so  restless  at  home.  I  thought 
that  if  I  could  get  away —  You  see,  before  the  war, 
I  was  gathering  material  for  a  book  on  primitive  psy- 
chology and  when  I  came  back  I  found  some  of  the  keen- 
ness gone."  He  smiled  grimly.  "I  came  back  inclined 
to  think  that  all  psychology  is  primitive.  But  I  wanted 
to  get  to  work  again.     I   had  never  studied  the  West 


28  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

Coast  Indians  and  your  father's  letters  led  me  to  be- 
lieve that — er " 

It  was  not  at  all  polite  of  her  to  laugh,  but  he  had 
to  admit  that  her  laughter  was  very  pleasant  and  young. 

*'It  is  funny,  you  know,"  she  murmured  apologetically. 
"For  I  am  sure  you  pictured  father  as  a  kind  of  white 
patriarch,  surrounded  by  his  primitive  children  (father 
is  certain  to  have  called  the  Indians  his  ^children' ! ) . 
Unfortunately,  the  Indians  detest  father.  The/re  half 
afraid  of  him,  too.  I  don't  know  why.  Years  ago, 
when  we  lived  up  coast — "  she  paused,  plainly  annoyed 
at  her  own  loquacity,  **we  knew  plenty  of  Indians  then," 
she  finished  shortly, 

"And  are  there  no  Indians  here  at  all?" 

"There  is  an  Indian  reservation  at  North  Vancouver. 
That  is  the  nearest.  I  do  not  think  they  are  just  what 
you  are  looking  for.  But  both  in  Vancouver  and  Vic- 
toria you  can  get  in  touch  with  men  who  can  direct  you. 
Your  journey  need  not  be  entirely  wasted." 

"But  Dr.  Farr  himself Is  he  not  something  of 

an  authority?" 

"Y-es.     I  suppose  he  is." 

"What  information  the  letters  contained  seemed  to  be 
the  real  thing.'* 

"Oh,  the  letters  were  all  right.     I  wrote  them." 

"You!" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  the  secretary?  My  depart- 
ment is  the  'information  bureau.'  I  do  not  see  the  actual 
letters.  There  are  always  personal  bits  which  father 
puts  in  himself." 

"Bits  regarding  boarding  accommodation,  etc.  ?" 

She  did  not  answer  his  smile,  and  her  eyes  grew  hard 
as  she  nodded. 

"Usually  I  can  keep  things  from  going  that  far.  I 
can't  quite  see  how  it  happened  so  suddenly  in  your  case." 


THE     W  I  N  D  O  W  -  C;  A  Z  E  R  29 

"I  happen  to  be  a  sudden  person." 

"Evidently.  Father  was  quite  dumbfounded  when  he 
knew  you  had  actually  arrived.  He  certainly  expected 
an  inten'al  during  which  he  could  invent  good  and  suf- 
ficient reasons  for  putting  you  off." 

''Such  as?" 

"Such  as  smallpox.  An  outbreak  of  smallpox  among 
the  Indians  is  quite  a  favorite  with  father." 

"The  old — I  beg  your  pardon!" 

"Don't  bother.  You  are  certainly  entitled  to  an  ex- 
pression of  your  feelings.  It  may  be  the  only  satisfac- 
tion you  will  get.  But  aren't  we  getting  away  from  the 
question?" 

"Question?" 

"\Mien  do  you  wish  Li  Ho  to  take  you  back  to  Van- 
couver?" 

Professor  Spence  opened  his  lips  to  say  that  any  time 
would  suit.  It  was  the  obvious  answer,  the  only  sen- 
sible answer,  the  answer  which  he  fully  intended  to  make. 
But  he  did  not  make  it. 

"Must  I  really  go?"  he  asked.  He  was,  so  he  had 
said  himself,  a  sudden  person. 

His  hostess  met  his  deprecating  gaze  with  pure  sur- 
prise. 

"You  can't  possibly  want  to  stay?" 

"I  quite  possibly  can.  I  like  it  here.  And  I'm  hor- 
ribly tired." 

The  hostility  which  had  begun  to  gather  in  her  eyes 
lightened  a  little. 

"Tired?  I  noticed  that  you  limped  this  morning.  Is 
there  anything  the  matter  with  you?" 

It  was  certainly  an  ungracious  way  of  putting  it.  And 
her  eyes,  while  not  exactly  hostile,  were  ungracious,  too. 
They  would  make  anyone  with  a  spark  of  pride  want 
to  go  away  at  once.     The  professor  told  himself  this. 


30 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER 


Besides,  his  only  possible  reason  for  wishing  to  stay  had 
been  some  unformed  idea  of  being  helpful  to  the  girl 
herself — ungrateful  minx! 

''If  there  is  anything  really  wrong *'  the  cold  in- 
credulity of  her  tone  was  the  last  straw. 

"Nothing  wrong  at  all!"  said  Professor  Spence.  He 
arose  briskly.  Alas!  He  had  forgotten  his  sciatic 
nerve.  He  had  forgotten,  too,  the  crampiness  of  its  tem- 
per since  that  glacial  bath,  and,  most  completely  of  all, 
had  he  forgotten  the  fate  of  the  man-who-didn't-take- 
care-of -himself.  Therefore  it  was  with  something  of 
surprise  that  he  found  himself  crumpled  up  upon  the 
floor.  Only  when  he  tried  to  rise  again  and  felt  the 
sweat  upon  his  forehead  did  he  remember  the  doctor's 
story.  .  .  .  Spence  swore  under  his  breath  and  attempted 
to  pull  himself  up  by  the  table. 

''Wait  a  moment!" 

The  cold  voice  held  authority — ^the  authority  he  had 
come  to  respect  in  hospital — and  he  waited,  setting  his 
teeth.  Next  moment  he  set  them  still  harder,  for  Li 
Ho  and  the  girl  picked  him  up  without  ceremony  and  laid 
him,  whitefaced,  upon  the  sprawling  sofa. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  you  had  sciatica?"  asked  Miss 
Farr,  belligerently. 

It  seemed  unnecessary  to  answer. 

"I  know  it  is  sciatica,"  she  went  on,  "because  I've 
seen  it  before.  And  if  you  had  no  more  sense  than  to 
bathe  in  that  pool  you  deserve  all  you've  got." 

"It  looked  all  right." 

"Oh— looked !     It's  melted  ice— simply." 

"So  I  realized,  afterwards." 

"You  seem  to  do  most  things  afterwards.  What 
caused  it  in  the  first  place,  cold  ?" 

"The  sciatica?     No — an  injury." 

There  was  a  slight  pause. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  31 

''Was  it — in  the  war?"  The  new  note  in  her  voice 
did  not  escajxj  Spence.  He  lied  promptly — too  promptly. 
Desire  Farr  was  an  observant  young  person,  quite  capa- 
ble of  drawing  conclusions. 

*T'm  not  going  to  be  sympathetic/*  she  said.  "That," 
with  sudden  illumination,  **is  probably  what  you  ran 
away  from.  But  you'd  better  be  truthful.  Was  it  a 
bullet?" 

"Shrapnel.'* 

"And  the  treatment?'* 

"Rest,  and  the  tablets  in  my  bag.'* 

"Right— I'll  get  them." 

It  was  quite  like  old  hospital  times.  The  sofa  was 
hard  and  the  pillows  knobby.  But  he  had  Iain  upon  worse. 
Li  Ho  was  not  more  unhandy  than  many  an  orderly. 
And  the  tablets,  quickly  and  neatly  administered  by  Miss 
Farr,  brought  something  of  relief. 

Not  until  she  saw  the  strain  within  his  eyes  relax  did 
his  self-appointed  nurse  pass  sentence. 

"You  certainly  can't  move  until  you  are  better,"  she 
said.  "You'll  have  to  stay.  It  can't  be  helped  but — 
father  will  have  a  fit." 

"A  fit?"  murmured  Spence.  Privately  he  thought  that 
a  fit  might  do  the  old  gentleman  good. 

**He  hates  having  anyone  here,"  she  went  on  thought- 
fully.    "It  upsets  him." 

"Does  it?  But  why?  I  can  understand  it  upsetting 
you.     But  he — he  doesn't  do  the  work,  does  he?" 

"Not  exactly,"  the  girl  smiled.  "But — oh  well,  I 
don't  believe  in  explanations.  You'll  see  things  for  your- 
self, perhaps.  And  now  I'll  get  you  a  book.  I  won't 
warn  you  not  to  move  for  I  know  you  can't." 

With  a  glance  which,  true  to  her  promise,  was  not 
overburdened  with  sympathy,  his  strangely  acquired 
hostess  went  out  and  closed  the  door. 


32  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

He  tried  to  read  the  book  she  had  handed  him  ("Green 
Mansions" — ho--'  had  it  wandered  out  here?)  but  his 
mind  could  not  detach  itself.  It  insisted  upon  listening 
for  sounds  outside.  And  presently  a  sound  came — the 
high,  thin  sound  of  a  voice  shaking  with  weakness  or 
rage.  Then  the  cool  tones  of  his  absent  nurse,  then  the 
voice  again — certainly  a  most  unpleasant  voice — and  the 
crashing  sound  of  something  being  violently  thrown  to 
the  ground  and  stamped  upon.  Through  the  closed  door, 
the  professor  seemed  to  see  a  vision  of  an  absurd  old 
man  with  pale  eyes,  who  shrieked  and  stamped  upon  an 
umbrella. 

"That,"  said  Hamilton  Spence,  with  resignation,  "that 
must  be  father  having  a  fit  1" 


IV 

Letter  from  Professor  Hamilton  Spence  to  his  friend, 
John  Rogers,  M.D. 

T^EAR  Bones:  Chortle  if  you  want  to — your  worst 
^-^  prognostications  have  come  true.  The  unexpected- 
ness of  the  sciatic  nerve,  as  set  forth  in  your  parting 
discourse,  has  amply  proved  itself.  The  dashed  thing  is 
all  that  you  said  of  it — and  more.  It  did  not  even  permit 
me  to  collapse  gracefully — or  to  choose  my  public.  Your 
other  man  had  a  policeman,  hadn't  he? 

Here  I  am,  stranded  upon  a  sofa  from  which  I  cannot 
get  up  and  detained  indefinitely  upon  a  mountain  from 
which  I  cannot  get  down.  My  nurse  (I  have  a  nurse) 
refuses  to  admit  the  mountain.  She  insists  upon  re- 
ferring to  this  dizzy  height  as  "just  above  sea-level"  and 
declares  that  the  precipitous  ascent  thereto  is  **a  slight 
grade."     Otherwise  she  is  quite  sane. 

But  sanity  is  more  than  I  feel  justified  in  claiming  for 
anyone  else  in  this  household.  There  is  Li  Ho,  for  in- 
stance. Well,  I'm  not  certain  about  Li  Ho.  He  may 
be  Chinese-sane.  My  nurse  says  he  is.  But  I  have  no 
doubts  at  all  about  my  host.  He  is  so  queer  that  I  some- 
times wonder  if  he  is  not  a  figment.  Perhaps  I  imagine 
him.  If  so,  my  imagination  is  going  strong.  What  I 
seem  to  see  is  a  little  old  man  in  a  frock  coat  so  long  that 
his  legs  (like  those  of  the  Queen  of  Spain)  are  neg- 
ligible. He  has  a  putty  colored  face  (so  blurred  that  I 
keep  expecting  him  to  rub  it  out  altogether),  white  hair, 
pale  blue  eyes — and  an  umbrella. 

33 


34 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER 


Yesterday,  attempting  to  establish  cordial  relations,  I 
asked  him  why  the  umbrella.  He  had  a  fit  right  on  the 
spot! 

Let  me  explain  about  the  fits.  When  his  daughter 
just  said,  'Tather  will  have  a  fit,"  I  thought  she  spoke 
in  a  Pickwickian  sense,  meaning,  'Tather  will  experience 
annoyance."  But  when  I  heard  him  having  it,  I  real- 
ized that  she  had  probably  been  quite  literal.  When 
father  has  a  fit  he  bangs  his  umbrella  to  the  floor  and 
jumps  on  it.  Also  he  tears  his  hair.  I  have  seen  the 
pieces. 

I  said  to  my  nurse :  "The  mention  of  his  umbrella 
seems  to  agitate  your  father."  She  turned  quite  pale. 
*lt  does,"  she  said.  "I  hope  you  haven't  mentioned  it." 
I  said  that  I  had  merely  asked  for  information.  ''And 
did  you  get  it?"  asked  she.  I  said  that  I  had — since  it 
was  apparent  that  one  has  to  carry  an  umbrella  if  one 
wishes  to  have  it  handy  to  jump  upon.  She  didn't  laugh 
at  all,  and  looked  so  withdrawn  that  it  was  quite  plain 
I  need  expect  no  elucidation  from  her. 

I  had  to  dismiss  the  subject  altogether.  But,  later 
on,  Li  Ho  (who  appears  to  partially  approve  of  me)  gave 
a  curious  side  light  on  the  matter.  At  night  as  he  was 
tucking  me  up  safely  (the  sofa  is  slippery),  he  said, 
''Honorable  Boss  got  hole  in  head-top.  Sun  velly  bad. 
Umblella  keep  him  off." 

"But  he  carries  it  at  night,  too,"  I  objected. 

Li  Ho  wagged  his  parchment  head.  "Keep  moon  off 
all  same.  Moon  muchy  more  bad.  Full  moon  find  um 
hole.     Make  Honorable  Boss  much  klasy." 

Remarkably  lucid  explanation — don't  you  think  so? 
The  "hole  in  head  top"  is  evidently  Li  Ho's  picturesque 
figure  for  "mental  vacuum."  Therefore  I  gather  that 
our  yellow  brother  suspects  his  honorable  boss  of  being 
weak-headed,  a  condition  aggravated  by  the  direct  rays 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  35 

of  the  sun  and  especially  by  the  full  moon.  He  may  be 
right — though  the  old  man  seems  harmless  enough. 
"Childlike  and  bland"  describes  him  usually.  Though 
there  are  times  when  he  looks  at  me  with  those  pale 
eyes — and  I  wish  that  I  were  not  quite  so  helpless !  He 
dislikes  me.  But  I  have  known  quite  sane  people  do 
that. 

I  am  writing  nonsense.     One  has  to,  with  sciatica.     I 
hope  this  confounded  leg  lets  me  get  some  sleep  tonight. 

Yours, 

B. 

P.S. :     Not  exactly  an  ideal  home  for  a  young  girl 
—is  it? 


IT  had  rained  all  night.     It  had  rained  all  yesterday. 
It  had  rained  all  the  day  before.     It  was  raining  still. 
Apparently  it  could  go  on  raining  indefinitely. 

Miss  Farr  said  not.  She  said  that  it  would  be  cer- 
tain to  clear  up  in  a  day  or  two.  "And  then,"  she  said, 
"you  will  forget  that  it  ever  rained." 

Professor  Spence  doubted  it.  He  had  a  good  mem- 
ory. 

"You  look  much  better  this  morning,"  his  nurse  went 
on.     "Have  you  tried  to  move  your  leg  yet?" 

"I  am  thinking  of  trying  it." 

This  was  not  exactly  a  fib  on  the  part  of  the  professor 
because  he  was  thinking  of  it.  But  it  did  not  include 
the  whole  truth,  because  he  had  already  tried  it,  tried  it 
very  successfully  only  a  few  moments  before.  First 
he  had  made  sure  that  he  was  alone  in  the  room  and  then 
he  had  proceeded  with  the  trial.  Very  cautiously  he  had 
drawn  his  lame  leg  up,  and  tenderly  stretched  it  out. 
He  had  turned  over  and  back  again.  He  had  wiggled 
his  toes  to  see  how  many  of  them  were  present — only 
the  littlest  toe  was  still  numb.  He  had  realized  that  he 
was  much  better.  If  the  improvement  kept  on,  he  knew 
that  in  a  day  or  so  he  would  be  able  to  walk  with  the  aid 
of  a  cane.  And  he  also  knew  that,  with  his  walking, 
his  status  as  an  invalid  guest  would  vanish.  Luckily, 
no  one  but  himself  could  say  when  the  walking  stage 
was  reached — hence  the  strict  privacy  of  his  experiments. 

"Father  thinks  that  you  should  be  able  to  walk  in 
about  three  days,"  said  Miss  Farr  cheerfully. 

Spence  said  he  hoped  that  Dr.  Farr  was  right.     But 

36 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  37 

the  rain,  he  feared,  might  keep  him  back  a  bit.  '1  am 
really  sorry,"  he  added,  "that  my  presence  is  so  distaste- 
ful to  the  doctor.  I  have  been  here  almost  two  weeks 
and  I  have  seen  so  little  of  him  that  Fm  afraid  I  am 
keeping  him  out  of  his  own  house." 

**No,  you  are  not  doing  that,"  the  girl's  reassurance 
was  cordial  enough.  'Tather  is  having  an  outside  spell 
just  now.  He  quite  often  does.  Sometimes  for  weeks 
together  he  spends  most  of  his  time  out  of  doors.  Then, 
quite  suddenly,  he  will  settle  down  and  be  more  like — 
other  people." 

It  was  her  way,  the  professor  noticed,  to  state  facts, 
not  to  explain  them. 

"Then  he  has  what  I  call  an  'inside  spell,'  "  she  went 
on.  "That  is  when  he  does  most  of  his  writing.  He 
does  some  quite  good  things,  you  know.  And  a  few  of 
them  get  pubHshed." 

"Scientific  articles?"  asked  Spence. 

"Well — articles.  You  might  not  call  them  scientific. 
Science  is  very  exact,  isn't  it?  Father  would  rather 
be  interesting  than  exact  any  day." 

Her  hearer  found  no  difficulty  in  believing  this. 

"His  folk-lore  stories  are  the  best — and  the  least  ex- 
act," continued  she,  heedless  of  the  shock  inflicted  upon 
the  professorial  mind.  "He  knows  exactly  the  kind  of 
things  Indians  tell,  and  tells  it  very  much  better." 

"You  mean  he — he  fakes  it?" 

"Well— he  calls  it  'editing.'  " 

"But,  my  dear  girl,  you  can't  edit  folk-lore!" 

'Tather  can." 

*'But — but  it  isn't  done!  Such  material  loses  all  value 
if  not  authentic." 

"Does  it?" 

The  question  was  indifferent.  So  indifferent,  in  the 
face  of  a  matter  of  such  moment,  that  Hamilton  Spence 


38  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

writhed  upon  his  couch.  Here  at  least  there  was  room 
for  genuine  missionary  work.     He  cleared  his  throat. 

*'I  will  tell  you  just  how  much  it  matters,"  he  began 
firmly.  But  the  fates  were  not  with  him,  neither  was 
his  audience.  Attracted  by  some  movement  which  he 
had  missed  she,  the  audience,  had  slipped  to  the  door,  and 
was  opening  it  cautiously. 

''What  is  it?"  asked  the  baffled  lecturer  crossly. 

"S-ssh!     I  think  it's  Sami." 

''A  tame  bear?" 

"No.  Wait.  I'll  prop  you  up  so  you  can  see  him. 
Look,  behind  the  veranda  post." 

The  professor  looked  and  forgot  about  the  value  of 
authenticity;  for  from  behind  the  veranda  post  a  most 
curious  face  was  peeping — a  round,  solemn  baby  face 
of  cafe  au  hit  with  squat,  wide  nose  and  flat-set  eyes. 

"A  Jap?"  exclaimed  Spence  in  surprise. 

"No.  He's  Indian.  Some  of  the  babies  are  so  Japa- 
neesy  that  it's  hard  to  tell  the  difference.  Father  says 
it's  a  strain  of  the  same  blood.  But  they  are  not  all  as 
pretty  as  Sami.     Isn't  he  a  duck?" 

"He  is  at  home  in  the  rain,  anyway.  Why  doesn't  he 
come  in?" 

"He's  afraid  of  you." 

"That's  unusual — until  one  has  seen  me." 

"Sami  doesn't  need  to  see  a  stranger." 

"Well,  that's  primitive  enough,  surely !  Let's  call  him 
in." 

"I'd  like  to,  but  Sami  won't  come  for  calling." 

"Oh,  won't  he?  Leave  the  door  open  and  watch 
him." 

As  absorbed  now  as  the  girl  herself,  the  professor 
put  his  finger  to  his  lips  and  whistled — a  low,  clear 
whistle,  rather  like  the  calling  of  a  meditative  bird.  Sev- 
eral times  he  whistled  so,  on  different  notes;  and  then. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  39 

to  her  surprise,  the  watching  girl  saw  the  httle  wild  thing 
outside  stir  in  answer  to  the  call.  Sami  came  out  from 
behind  the  post  and  stood  listening,  for  all  the  world 
like  an  inquiring  squirrel.  The  whistle  sounded  again, 
a  plaintive,  seeking  sound,  infinitely  alluring.  It  seemed 
to  draw  the  heart  like  a  living  thing.  Slowly  at  first  and 
then  with  the  swift,  gliding  motion  of  the  woods,  the 
wide-eyed  youngster  approached  the  open  door  and  stood 
there  waiting,  poised  and  ready  for  advance  or  flight. 
Again  the  whistle  came,  and  to  it  came  Sami,  straight  as 
a  bird  to  its  calling  mate. 

"Tamed!"  said  the  professor  softly.  "See,  he  is  not 
a  bit  afraid." 

"How  on  earth  did  you  do  it?"  asked  Miss  Farr  when 
the  shy,  brown  baby  had  been  duly  welcomed.  The 
whistler  was  visibly  vain. 

"Oh,  it's  quite  simple.  I  merely  talked  to  him  in  his 
own  language." 

"I  see  that.     But  where  did  you  learn  the  language?" 

"Well,  a  fellow  taught  me  that— man  I  met  at  Ypres. 
He  could  have  whistled  back  the  dodo,  I  think.  He 
knew  all  kinds  of  calls — said  all  the  wild  things  answered 
to  them." 

"Was  he  a  great  naturalist?" 

The  cheerful  vanity  faded  from  Spencers  face,  leaving 
it  sombre. 

"He — would  have  been,"  he  said  briefly. 

Miss  Farr  asked  no  more  questions.  It  was  a  restful 
way  she  had.  And  perhaps  because  she  did  not  ask, 
the  professor  felt  an  unaccustomed  impulse.  "He  was 
a  wonderful  chap,"  he  volunteered.  "There  are  few 
like  him  in  a  generation.     It  seemed — rather  a  waste." 

The  girl  nodded.  "Used  or  wasted — it's  as  it  hap- 
pens," she  said.     "There  is  no  plan." 

"That's   a   heathen  sentiment!"      The   professor   re- 


40  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


covered  his  cheerfulness.     ''A  sentiment  not  at  all  suited 
for  the  contemplation  of  extreme  youth." 

*'l  am  not  extremely  young." 

*'You?  I  was  referring  to  our  brown  brother.  He  is 
becoming  uneasy  again.     What's  the  matter  with  him?" 

Whatever  was  the  matter,  it  reached,  at  that  moment, 
an  acute  stage  and  Sami  disappeared  through  the  door 
into  the  kitchen.  Perhaps  his  ears  were  sharper  than 
theirs  and  his  eyes  keener.  He  may  have  seen  a  large 
umbrella  coming  across  the  clearing. 

Miss  Farr  frowned.  "Sami  is  afraid  of  father,"  she 
explained  briefly.  The  door  opened  as  she  added,  *1 
wonder  why?" 

"A  caprice  of  childhood,  my  daughter,"  said  the  old 
doctor  mildly.  "Who  indeed  can  account  for  the  vaga- 
ries of  the  young?" 

"They  are  usually  quite  easy  to  account  for,"  replied 
his  daughter  coldly.  "You  must  have  frightened  the 
child  some  time." 

"Tut,  tut,  my  dear.  How  could  an  old  fogey  like 
myself  frighten  anyone?" 

"I  don't  know.     But  I  should  like  to." 

Father  and  daughter  looked  at  each  other  for  a  mo- 
ment. And  again  the  captive  on  the  sofa  found  himself 
disHking  intensely  the  glance  of  the  old  man's  pale  blue 
eyes.  He  was  glad  to  see  that  they  fell  before  the  grey 
eyes  of  the  girl. 

"Well,  well!"  murmured  Dr.  Farr  vaguely,  looking 
away.  "It  doesn't  matter.  It  doesn't  matter.  Tut,  tut, 
a  trifle!" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  she.  And  abruptly  she  went 
out  after  the  child. 

"Fanciful,  very  fanciful,"  murmured  the  old  man, 
looking  after  her.  "And  stubborn,  very  stubborn.  A 
bad  fault  in  one  so  young.     But,"  beaming  benevolently 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  41 

upon  his  guest,  *Sve  must  not  trouble  you  with  our  small 
domestic  discords.  You  are  much  better,  I  see,  much 
better.     That  is  good." 

^'Getting  along  very  nicely,  thanks,"  said  Spence.  *T 
was  able  to  change  position  this  morning  without  as- 
sistance." 

''Only  that?"  The  doctor's  disappointment  was  pat- 
ent. "Come,  we  should  progress  better  than  that.  If 
you  will  allow  me  to  prescribe " 

*Thank  you — no.  I  feel  quite  satisfied  with  the  treat- 
ment prescribed  by  old  Bones — I  mean  by  my  friend. 
Dr.  Rogers.  He  understands  the  case  thoroughly.  One 
must  be  patient." 

"Quite  so,  quite  so."  The  curiously  blurred  face  of 
the  doctor  seemed  for  a  moment  to  take  on  sharper 
lines.  Spence  had  observed  it  do  this  before  under 
stress  of  feeling.  But  as  the  exact  feeling  which  caused 
the  change  was  usually  obscure,  it  seeme  1  safest  to  ignore 
it  altogether.  He  was  growing  quite  expert  at  ignoring 
things.  For,  quite  contrary  to  the  usual  trend  of  his 
character,  he  was  reacting  to  the  urge  of  a  growing  de- 
sire to  stay  where  he  wasn't  wanted.  He  didn't  reason 
about  it.  He  did  not  even  admit  it.  But  it  moved  in 
his  mind. 

"I'm  not  fretting  at  all  about  being  tied  up  here,"  he 
went  on  cheerfully.  "I  find  the  air  quite  stimulating. 
I  believe  I  could  work  here.  In  fact,  I  have  some  notes 
with  me  which  I  may  elaborate.  I  fancy  that,  as  you  said 
in  your  letters.  Miss  Farr  will  prove  a  most  capable  sec- 
retary.    I  am  going  to  ask  her  to  help  me." 

"Are  you  indeed?"  The  doctor's  tone  was  polite  but 
absent. 

"You  do  not  object,  I  hope?" 

"Object — why  should  I  object?     But  Desire  is  busy. 


42  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

very  busy.     I  doubt  if  her  duties  will  spare  her.     I  doubt 
it  very  much." 

''Naturally,  I  should  wish  to  offer  her  ample  remu- 
neration." 

Again  the  loose  lines  of  the  strange  old  face  seemed 
to  sharpen.  There  was  a  growing  eagerness  in  the  pale 
eyes  .  .  .  but  it  died. 

"Even  in  that  case,"  said  Dr.  Farr  regretfully,  *1  fear 
it  will  be  impossible." 

Spence  pressed  this  particular  point  no  further.  He 
had  found  out  what  he  wanted  to  know,  namely,  that 
his  host's  desire  to  see  the  last  of  him  was  stronger  even 
than  his  desire  for  money.  His  own  desire  to  see  more 
of  his  host  strengthened  in  proportion. 

"Supposing  we  leave  it  to  Miss  Farr  herself,"  he  sug- 
gested smoothly.  "Since  you  have  personally  no  objec- 
tion.    If  she  is  unwilling  to  oblige  me,  of  course " 

"I  will  speak  to  her,"  promised  the  doctor. 
Spence  smiled. 

"What  surprises  me,  doctor,"  he  went  on,  pushing  a 
little  further,  "is  how  you  have  managed  to  keep  so  very 
intelligent  a  secretary  in  so  restricted  an  environment. 
The  stronger  one's  wings,  the  stronger  the  temptation  to 
use  them." 

He  had  expected  to  strike  fire  with  this,  but  the  pale 
eyes  looked  placidly  past  him. 

"Desire  has  left  me,  at  times,  but — she  has  always 
come  back."     The  old  man's  voice  was  very  gentle,  al- 
most caressing,  and  should  certainly  have  provided  no 
reason  for  the  chill  that  crept  up  his  hearer's  spine. 
"She  has  never  found  work  suited  to  her,  perhaps," 

suggested  Spence.     "If  you  will  allow  me, " 

"You  are  very  kind,"  the  velvet  was  off  the  doctor's 
voice  now.  He  rose  with  a  certain  travesty  of  dignity. 
"But  I  may  say  that  I  desire — that  I  will  tolerate — 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  43 

no  interference.  My  daughter's  future  shall  be  her 
father's  care." 

Spence  laughed.  It  was  an  insulting  laugh,  and  he 
knew  it.  But  the  contrast  between  the  grandiloquent 
words  and  the  ridiculous  figure  which  uttered  them  was 
too  much  for  him.  Besides,  though  the  most  courteous 
of  men,  he  deliberately  wished  to  be  insulting.  He 
couldn't  help  it.  There  rose  up  in  him,  suddenly,  a  wild 
and  unreasoning  anger  that  mere  paternity  could  place 
anyone  (and  especially  a  young  girl  with  cool,  grey 
eyes)  in  the  power  of  such  a  caricature  of  manhood. 

''Really?"  said  Spence.  There  was  everything  in  the 
word  that  tone  could  utter  of  challenge  and  derision.  He 
raised  himself  upon  his  elbow.  The  doctor,  who  had 
been  closely  contemplating  his  umbrella,  looked  up  slowly. 
The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met.  ,  .  .  Spence  had  never 
seen  eyes  like  that  .  .  .  they  dazzled  him  like  sudden 
sunlight  on  a  blade  of  steel  .  .  .  they  clung  to  his  mind 
and  bewildered  it  ...  he  forgot  the  question  at  issue 
...  he  forgot 

Just  then  Li  Ho  opened  the  kitchen  door. 

"Get  'um  lunch  now,"  said  Li  Ho,  in  his  toneless 
drawl.     ''Like  'um  tgg  flied?     Like  'um  boiled?" 

Spence  sank  back  upon  his  pillow. 

'Tike  um  any  old  way!"  he  said.  His  voice  sounded 
a  little  breathless. 

The  doctor,  once  again  absorbed  in  the  contemplation 
of  his  umbrella,  went  out. 


VI 


LUNCHEON,  for  which  Li  Ho  had  provided  egg-s 
both  boiled  and  fried,  was  eaten  alone.  His  hostess 
did  not  honor  him  with  her  company,  nor  did  her  father 
return.  Li  Ho  was  attentive  but  silent.  And  outside 
the  rain  still  rained. 

Professor  Spence  lay  and  counted  the  drops  as  they 
fell  from  a  knot  hole  in  the  veranda  roof — one  small 
drop' — two  medium-sized  drops — one  big  drop — as  if 
some  unseen  djinn  were  measuring  them  out  in  ruthless 
monotony.  He  counted  the  drops  until  his  brain  felt 
soggy  and  he  began  to  speculate  upon  what  Aunt  Caro- 
line would  think  of  fried  eggs  for  luncheon.  He  won- 
dered why  there  were  no  special  dishes  for  special  meals 
in  Li  Ho's  domestic  calendar;  why  all  things,  to  Li  Ho, 
were  good  (or  bad)  at  all  times?  Would  he  give  them 
porridge  and  bacon  for  dinner?  Spence  decided  that 
he  didn't  mind.  He  was  ready  tO'  like  anything  which 
was  strikingly  different  from  Aunt  Caroline.  .  .  . 

One  small  drop — two  medium-sized  drops — one  big 
drop.  .  .  .  He  wondered  when  he  would  know  his  young 
nurse  well  enough  to  call  her  by  her  first  name?  (Pre- 
fixed by  "miss,"  perhaps.)  "Desire" — it  was  a  rather 
charming  name.  How  old  would  she  be,  he  wondered; 
twenty?  There  were  times  when  she  looked  even 
younger  than  twenty.  But  he  had  to  confess  that  she 
never  acted  like  it.  At  least  she  did  not  act  as  he  had 
believed  girls  of  twenty  are  accustomed  to  act.  Very 
differently  indeed.  .  .  .  One  small  drop — two  medium- 
sized — oh,  bother  the  drops!  Where  was  she,  anyway? 
Did  she  intend  to  stay  out  all  afternoon  ?     Was  that  the 

44 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  45 

way  she  treated  an  invalid?  .  .  .  He  couldn't  see  why- 
people  go  out  in  the  rain,  anyway.  People  are  apt  to 
take  their  deaths  of  cold.  People  may  get  pneumonia. 
It  would  serve  people  right — almost.  .  .  .  One  drop — 
oh,  confound  the  drops! 

The  professor  tried  to  read.  The  book  he  opened 
had  been  a  famous  novel,  a  best-seller,  some  five  years 
ago.  It  had  been  thought  "advanced."  Advanced! — 
but  now  how  inconceivably  flat  and  stale !  How  on  earth 
had  anyone  ever  praised  it,  called  it  "epoch-marking," 
bought  it  by  the  thousand  thousand?  Why,  the  thing 
was  dead — a  dead  book,  than  which  there  is  nothing 
deader.  This  reflection  gave  him  something  to  think 
of  for  a  while.  Instead  of  counting  drops  he  amused 
himself  by  strolling  back  through  the  years,  a  critical 
stretcher-bearer,  picking  up  literary  corpses  by  the  way- 
side. They  were  thickly  strewn.  He  was  appalled  to 
find  how  faintly  beat  the  pulse  of  life  even  in  the  liv- 
ing. Would  not  another  generation  see  the  burial  of 
them  all  ?    Was  there  no  new  Immortal  anywhere  ? 

"When  I  write  a  novel,"  thought  the  professor  sol- 
emnly, "which,  please  God,  I  shall  never  do,  I  will  write 
about  people  and  not  about  things.  Things  change  al- 
ways; people  never."  It  was  a  wise  conclusion  but  it 
did  not  help  the  afternoon  to  pass. 

Desire,  that  is  to  say  Miss  Farr,  had  passed  the  win- 
dow twice  already.  He  might  have  called  her.  But  he 
hadn't.  If  people  forget  one's  very  existence  it  is  not 
prideful  to  call  them.  And  the  Spences  are  a  pridciul 
race.  Desire  (he  decided  it  didn't  matter  if  he  called 
her  Desire  to  himself,  she  was  such  a  child)  was  wearing 
an  old  tweed  coat  and  was  carrying  wood.  She  wore  no 
hat  and  her  hair  was  glossy  with  rain.  .  .  .  People  take 
such  silly  risks And  where  was  Li   Ho?    Why 


46  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

wasn't  he  carrying  the  wcx)d  ?     Not  that  the  wood  seemed 
to  bother  Desire  in  the  least. 

The  captive  on  the  sofa  sighed.  It  was  no  use  try- 
ing to  hide  from  himself  his  longing  to  be  out  there  with 
her  in  that  heavenly  Spring-pierced  air,  revelHng  in  its 
bloomy  wetness ;  strong  and  fit  in  muscle  and  nerve,  car- 
rying wood,  getting  his  head  soaked,  doing  all  the  f  oohsh 
things  which  youth  does  with  impunity  and  careless  joy. 
The  new  restlessness,  which  he  had  come  so  far  to  quiet, 
broke  over  him  in  miserable,  taunting  waves. 

Why  was  he  here  on  the  sofa  instead  of  out  there  in 
the  rain  ?  The  war  ?  But  he  was  too  inherently  honest 
to  blame  the  war.  It  was,  perhaps,  responsible  for  the 
present  state  of  his  sciatic  nerve  but  not  for  the  selling 
of  his  birthright  of  sturdy  youth.  The  causes  of  that 
lay  far  behind  the  war.  Had  he  not  refused  himself  to 
youth  when  youth  had  called?  Had  he  not  shut  him- 
self behind  study  doors  while  Spring  crept  in  at  the 
window?  The  war  had  come  and  dragged  him  out. 
Across  his  quiet,  ordered  path  its  red  trail  had  stretched 
and  to  go  forward  it  had  been  necessary  to  go  through. 
The  Spences  always  went  through.  But  Nature,  every 
inch  a  woman,  had  made  him  pay  for  scorning  her.  She 
had  killed  no  fatted  calf  for  her  prodigal. 

So  here  he  was,  at  thirty-five,  envying  a  girl  who  could 
carry  wood  without  weariness.  The  envy  had  become 
acute  irritation  by  the  time  the  wood  was  stacked  and 
the  wood-carrier  brought  her  shining  hair  and  rain-tinted 
cheeks  into  the  living-room. 

'T^g  bad  again?"  asked  Desire  casually. 

''No—- temper." 

*Tt's  time  for  tea.     I'll  see  about  it." 

"You'll  take  your  wet  things  off  first.  You  must  be 
wet  through.  Do  you  want  to  come  down  with  pneu- 
monia ?" 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  47 

The  girl's  eyebrows  lifted.  "That's  silly,"  she  said. 
And  indeed  the  remark  was  absurd  enough  addressed  to 
one  on  whom  the  wonder  and  mystery  of  budding  life 
rested  so  visibly.  "I'm  not  wet  at  all,"  she  went  on. 
''Only  my  coat.**  She  slipped  out  of  the  old  tweed 
ulster,  scattering  bright  drops  about  the  room.  "And 
my  hair,"  she  added  as  if  by  an  afterthought.  "I'll  dry 
it  presently.  But  I  don't  wonder  you're  cross.  The 
fire  is  almost  out.  We'll  have  something  to  eat  when 
the  kettle  boils.  Father's  gone  up  trail.  He  probably 
won't  be  back."  For  an  instant  she  stood  with  a  con- 
sidering air  as  if  intending  to  add  something.  Then 
turned  and  went  into  the  kitchen  without  doing  it.  She 
came  back  with  a  handful  of  pine-knots  with  which  she 
deftly  mended  the  fire. 

The  professor  moved  restlessly. 

"I'll  be  around  soon  now,"  he  said,  "and  then  you 
shan't  do  that." 

"Shan't  do  what?" 

''Carry  wood." 

"That's  funny."  Desire  placed  a  crackling  pine-knot 
on  the  apex  of  her  pyramid  and  sat  back  on  her  heels  to 
w^atch  it  blaze.  Her  tone  was  ruminative.  "There's 
no  real  sense  in  that,  you  know.  Why  shouldn't  I  carry 
wood  when  I  am  perfectly  able  to  do  it?  Your  objec- 
tion is  purely  an  acquired  one- — a  manifestation  of  the 
herd  instinct." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  Professor  Spence  was  won- 
dering if  he  had  really  heard  this. 

"W" — what  w^as  that  you  said?"  he  asked  cautiously. 

Desire  laughed.  He  had  observed  with  wonder, 
amounting  almost  to  awe,  that  she  never  giggled. 

"Score  one  for  me!"  She  turned  grey,  mirthful  eyes 
to  his.  "Amn't  I  learned?  I  read  it  in  an  article  in 
an  old  Sociological  Review — a  copy  left  here  by  a  man 


48  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

whom  father — well,  we  needn't  bother  about  that  part 
of  it.  But  the  article  was  wonderful.  I  can't  remember 
who  wrote  it." 

'Trotter,  perhaps, — yes,  it  would  be  Trotter,"  mur- 
mured the  professor. 

Desire  swung  round  upon  her  heels,  regarding  him  a 
trifle  wistfully. 

'T  should  like  to  know  all  that  you  know,"  she  said. 
"All  the  strange  things  inside  our  minds." 

"Would  you?  But  if  you  knew  what  I  know  you 
would  only  know  that  you  knew  nothing  at  all." 

"Yes,  it's  all  very  well  to  say  that,"  shrewdly,  "but 
you  don't  mean  it.  Besides,  even  if  you  don't  know 
anything,  you  have  glimpses  of  all  sorts  of  wonderful 
things  which  might  be  known.  You  can  go  on,  and  it's 
the  going  on  that  matters." 

"But  I  can't  carry  wood." 

A  little  smile  curled  the  comers  of  Desire's  lips.  He 
did  not  see  it  because  she  had  turned  to  the  fire  again  and, 
with  that  deliberate  unself -consciousness  which  charac- 
terized her,  was  proceeding  to  unpin  and  dry  her  hair. 
Spence  had  not  seen  it  undone  before  and  was  astonished 
at  its  length  and  lustre.  The  girl  shook  it  as  a  young 
colt  shakes  its  mane,  spreading  it  out  to  the  blaze  upon 
her  hands. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  though,"  admitted  Spence, 
"there  is  nothing  like  the  fascination  of  the  unknown. 
It  very  nearly  did  for  me." 

Desire  looked  up  long  enough  to  allow  her  slanting 
brows  to  ask  their  eternal  question. 

"Too  much  inside,  not  enough  outside,"  he  answered. 
"I  ought  to  have  made  myself  a  man  first  and  a  student 
afterward.  Then  I  might  have  been  out  in  the  rain  with 
you." 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  49 

She  considered  this,  as  she  considered  most  things, 
gravely.     Then  met  it  in  her  downright  way. 

'There's  nothing  very  wrong  with  you,  is  there? 
Nothing  but  what  can  be  put  right." 

"No." 

"Well  then,  you  can  begin  again.  And  begin  prop- 
erly." 

"I  am  thirty-five." 

"In  that  case  you  have  no  time  to  waste." 

It  was  a  thoroughly  sensible  remark.  But  somehow 
the  professor  did  not  like  it.  After  all,  thirty-five  is 
not  so  terribly  old.  He  decided  to  change  the  subject. 
But  there  was  no  immediate  hurry.  It  was  pleasant  to 
lie  there  in  the  firelight  watching  this  enigma  of  girl- 
hood dry  her  hair.  Perhaps  she  would  notice  his  si- 
lence and  ask  him  what  he  was  thinking  about. 

"You  really  ought  to  offer  me  a  penny  for  my 
thoughts,"  he  observed  plaintively. 

"Oh,  were  you  thinking?     So  was  I." 

"I'll  give  you  a  penny  for  yours!" 

Desire  shook  her  head. 

"No?  Then  Til  give  you  mine  for  nothing.  I  was 
thinking  what  a  pity  it  is  that  you  are  only  an  amateur 
nurse." 

"I  hate  nursing." 

"How  unwomanly!  Lots  of  women  hate  it — ^but  few 
admit  it.  However,  it  wasn't  a  nurse's  duties  I  was 
thinking  of,  but  a  patient's  privileges.  You  see,  if  you 
were  a  professional  nurse  I  could  call  you  *Nurse  De- 
sire.* " 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  want  to  call  me  by  my  first 
name  T' 

"Since  you  put  it  more  bluntly  than  I  should  dare  to, 
— yes.     It  is  a  charming  name.     But  perhaps " 

"Oh,  you  may  use  it  if  you  like,"  said  the  owner  of 


50  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

the  name  indifferently.  "It  sounds  more  natural.  I 
am  not  accustomed  to  'Miss  Farr.'  '' 

This  ought  to  have  been  satisfactory.  But  it  wasn't. 
And  after  he  had  led  up  to  it  so  tactfully,  too!  Not  for 
the  first  time  did  it  occur  to  our  psychologist  that  tact 
was  wasted  upon  this  downright  young  person.  He  de- 
cided not  to  be  tactful  any  longer. 

*T'm  getting  well  so  rapidly,"  he  said,  ''that  I  shall 
have  to  admit  it  soon." 

The  girl  nodded. 

"Are  you  glad?" 

"Of  course  I  am  glad." 

*T  shall  walk  with  a  cane  almost  in  no  time.  And 
when  I  can  walk,  I  shall  have  to  go  away." 

"Yes."  There  was  no  hesitation  in  her  prompt  agree- 
ment. Neither  did  she  add  any  pohte  regrets.  The  pro- 
fessor felt  unduly  irritated.  He  had  never  become  used 
to  her  ungirlish  taciturnity.  It  always  excited  him.  The 
women  he  had  known,  especially  the  younger  women,  had 
all  been  chatterers.  They  had  talked  and  he  had  not 
listened.  This  girl  said  little  and  her  silences  seemed 
to  clamour  in  his  ears.  Well,  she  would  have  to  answer 
this  time. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go?"  he  asked  plainly. 

"I  don't  w^ant  you  to  go."  Her  tone  was  thoughtful. 
"But  I  know  you  can't  stay.     One  has  to  accept  things." 

"One  doesn't.     One  can  make  things  happen." 

"How?" 

"By  willing." 

"Do  you  honestly  believe  that?"  He  was  astonished 
at  the  depth  of  mockery  in  her  tone. 

"I  certainly  do  believe  it.     I'll  prove  it  if  you  hke." 

"How?'^ 

"By  staying." 

Again  she  was  silent. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  51 

He  went  on  eagerly.  **Why  shouldn't  I  stay — for  a 
time  at  least?  I  have  plenty  of  work  to  go  on  with. 
Indeed  it  was  with  the  definite  intention  of  doing  this 
w^ork  that  I  came.  U  you  want  me,  I'll  stay  right 
enough.  The  bargain  that  was  made  with  your  father 
was  a  straight,  fair  business  arrangement.  I  have  no 
scruples  about  requiring  him  to  carry  out  his  part  of  it. 
The  trouble  was  that  it  seemed  as  if  insistence  would  be 
unfair  to  you.  But  if  you  and  I  can  arrange  that — if 
you  will  agree  to  let  me  do  what  I  can  to  help,  chores, 
you  know,  carrying  wood  and  so  on,  then  I  should  not 
need  to  feel  myself  a  burden.'* 

"You  have  not  been  a  burden.*' 

"Thanks.  You  have  been  extraordinarily  kind.  As 
for  the  rest  of  it — I  mentioned  the  matter  to  Dr.  Farr 
this  morning.'* 

She  was  interested  now.  He  could  see  her  eyes,  in- 
tent, through  the  falling  shadow  of  her  hair. 

"I  reminded  him  that  he  had  offered  me  the  services 
of  a  secretary  and  explained  that  I  was  ready  to  avail 
myself  of  his  offer." 

"And  what  did  he  say  to  that?" 

"Well — er — we  agreed  to  leave  the  decision  to  you." 

"Was  that  all?" 

"Practically  all." 

"Practically,  but  not  quite.  You  quarreled,  didn't 
you?  Frankly,  I  do  not  understand  father's  attitude  but 
I  know  what  his  attitude  is.  He  does  not  want  you 
here.  Neither  you  nor  anyone  else.  The  secretarial 
w^ork  you  offer  would  be — I  can't  tell  you  exactly  what 
it  would  be  to  me.  It  would  teach  me  something — and 
I  am  so  hungry  to  know !  But  he  will  find  some  way  to 
make  it  impossible.     You  will  have  to  go." 

"Nonsense!     He  cannot  go  back  on  his  agreement." 


52  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

"You  mean  he  has  accepted  money?  That,"  bitterly, 
*'means  nothing  to  him." 

"Nevertheless  it  gives  me  ground  to  stand  on.  And 
you,  too.     You  have  done  secretarial  work  before?" 

"Yes.  I  have  certain  qualifications.  At  intervals  I 
have  tried  to  make  myself  independent.  Several  times 
I  have  secured  office  positions  in  Vancouver.  But  father 
has  always  made  the  holding  of  them  impossible." 

"How?" 

"I  would  rather  not  go  into  it."  There  was  weary 
disgust  in  her  voice. 

"But  what  reason  does  he  give?" 

"That  his  daughter's  place  is  in  her  father's  house — 
funny,  isn't  it?" 

"You  do  not  think  that  affection  has  anything  to  do 
with  it?" 

"Not  even  remotely.  Whatever  his  reason  may  be 
for  keeping  me  with  him,  it  is  not  that.  Affection  is 
something  of  which  one  knows  by  instinct,  don't  you 
think?  Even  Li  Ho — I  know  instinctively  that  Li  Ho 
is  fond  of  me.  I  am  absolutely  certain  that  my  father 
is  not." 

"It  is  no  life  for  a  young  girl." 

"It  has  been  my  Hfe." 

The  professor  felt  uncomfortable.  There  was  that  in 
her  tone  which  forbade  all  comment.  She  had  given  him 
this  tiny  glimpse  and  quite  evidently  intended  to  give 
no  more.  But  Spence,  upon  occasion,  could  be  a  per- 
sistent man. 

"]\Iiss  Desire,"  he  said  gravely,  "do  you  absolutely 
decline  my  friendship?"  If  she  wanted  directness,  she 
was  getting  it  now. 

"How  can  I  do  otherwise?"  Her  face  was  turned 
from  him  and  her  low  voice  was  muffled  by  her  hair. 
But  for  the  first  time  she  had  cast  away  her  guard  of 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  53 

light  indifference.  ''Friendship  is  impossible  for  me. 
I  thought  you  would  see — and  go  away.  Nothing  that 
you  can  do  would  be  any  real  help.  I  have  tried  before 
to  free  myself.  But  I  could  not.  Nor,  in  the  little 
flights  of  freedom  which  I  had,  did  I  find  anything  that 
I  wanted.  I  am  as  well  here  as  anywhere.  Un- 
less  " 

She  w-as  silent,  looking  into  the  fire. 

"Unless  I  were  really  free,"  she  added  softly. 

He  could  not  see  her  face.  But  she  looked  very  young 
sitting  there  with  her  unbound  hair  and  hands  clasped 
childishly  about  her  knees. 

**You  have  wondered  about  me — in  a  psychological 
way — ever  since  you  came."  She  went  on,  her  voice 
taking  on  a  harsher  note.  "You  have  been  trying  to 
'place'  me.  Well,  since  you  are  curious  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  am.  When  I  was  younger  and  we  lived  in  towns 
I  used  to  wander  ofif  by  myself  down  the  main  streets  to 
gaze  in  the  windows.  I  never  went  into  any  of  the 
stores.  The  things  I  wanted  were  inside  and  for  sale 
— ^but  I  could  not  buy  them.  I  was  just  a  window-gazer. 
That's  what  I  am  still.  Life  is  for  sale  somewhere. 
But  I  cannot  buy  it." 

The  throb  of  her  voice  was  like  the  beating  of  caged 
wrings  through  the  quiet  room. 

"But "   began  Spence,   and  then  he  paused.     It 

wasn't  at  all  easy  to  know  what  to  say.  "You  are  mis- 
taken," he  went  on  finally.  "Life  isn't  for  sale  any- 
where. Life  is  inside,  not  outside.  And  no  one  ever 
really  wants  the  things  they  see  in  other  people's  win- 
dows." 

"I  do,"  said  Desire  coldly. 

She  was  certainly  very  young!  Spence  felt  suddenly 
indulgent. 

"What,  then — for  instance  ?"  he  asked. 


54  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

The  girl  shook  back  her  hair  and  arose. 

''Freedom,  money,  leisure,  books,  travel,  people!'^ 

*T  thought  you  were  going  to  leave  out  people  alto- 
gether," said  Spence,  whimsically.  "But  otherwise  your 
wants  are  fairly  comprehensive.  You  have  neglected 
only  two  important  things — health  and  love." 

'T  have  health — and  I  don't  want  love." 

''Not  yet — of  course "  began  the  professor,  still 

fatherly  indulgent.  But  she  turned  on  him  with  a  white 
face. 

''Never!"  she  said.  "That  one  thing  I  envy  no  one. 
You  are  wondering  why  I  have  never  considered  mar- 
riage as  a  possible  way  out?  Well,  it  isn't  a  possible 
way — for  me.     Marriage  is  a  hideous  thing — hideous!" 

She  wasn't  yoimg  now,  that  was  certain.  It  was  no 
child  who  stood  there  with  a  face  of  sick  distaste.  The 
professor's  mood  of  indulgent  maturity  melted  into  dis- 
may before  the  half-seen  horror  in  her  eyes. 

But  the  moment  of  revelation  passed  as  quickly  as  it 
had  come.  The  girl's  face  settled  again  into  its  grave 
placidity. 

"I'll  get  the  tea,"  she  said.  "The  kettle  will  be  boil- 
ing dry." 


VII 

In  the  form  of  a  letter  from  Professor  Spence  to  his 
friend,  Dr.  John  Rogers. 

I^TO  letter  yet  from  you,  Bones;  Bainbridge  must  be 
■*-  ^  having  the  measles.  Or  perhaps  I  am  not  allow- 
ing for  the  fact  that  it  takes  almost  a  fortnight  to  go 
and  come  across  this  little  bit  of  Empire.  Also  Li  Ho 
hasn't  been  across  the  Inlet  for  a  week.  He  says  'Tilli- 
cum  too  muchy  hole.     Li  Ho  long  time  patch  um." 

On  still  days,  I  can  hear  him  doing  it.  Perhaps  my 
hostess  is  right  and  we  are  not  so  far  away  from  the 
beach  as  I  fancied  on  the  night  of  my  arrival.  I'll  test 
this  detail,  and  many  others,  soon.  For  today  I  am 
sitting  up.  I'm  sure  I  could  walk  a  little,  if  I  were  to 
try.  But  I  am  not  in  a  hurry.  Hurry  is  a  vice  of 
youth. 

And  I  am  actually  getting  some  work  done.  Bones, 
old  thing,  I  have  made  a  discovery  for  the  lack  of  which 
many  famous  men  have  died  too  soon.  I  have  discov- 
ered the  perfect  secretary ! 


These  blank  lines  represent  all  the  things  which  I 
might  say  but  which,  with  great  moral  effort,  I  suppress. 
I  know  what  a  frightful  bore  is  the  man  who  insists 
upon  talking  about  a  new  discovery.  Therefore  I  shall 
not  indulge  my  natural  inclination  to  tell  you  just  how 
perfect  this  secretary  is.  I  shall  merely  note  that  she  is 
quick,  accurate,  silent,  interested,  appreciative,  intelligent 
to  a  remarkable  degree — Good  Heavens!     I'm  doing  it! 

55 


56  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

I  blush  now  when  I  remember  that  I  engaged  Miss 
Farr's  services  in  the  first  place  from  motives  of  philan- 
thropy. Is  it  possible  that  I  was  ever  fatuous  enough 
to  believe  that  I  was  the  party  who  conferred  the  bene- 
fit? If  so,  I  very  soon  discovered  my  mistake.  In  jus- 
tice to  myself  I  must  state  that  I  saw  at  once  what  a 
treasure  I  had  come  upon.  You  remember  what  a  quick, 
sure  judgment  my  father  had?  Somehow  I  seem  to  be 
getting  more  hke  him  all  the  time.  The  moment  any 
proposition  takes  on  a  purely  business  aspect,  I  become, 
as  it  were,  pure  intellect.  I  see  the  exact  value,  business 
value,  of  the  thing.  Aunt  Caroline  never  agrees  with  me 
in  this.  She  insists  upon  referring  to  that  oil  property 
at  Green  Lake  and  that  little  matter  of  South  American 
Mines.  But  those  mistakes  were  trifles.  Any  man  might 
have  made  them. 

In  this  case,  where  I  am  right  on  the  spot,  there  can 
be  no  possibility  of  a  mistake.  I  see  with  my  own  eyes. 
Miss  Farr  is  a  dream  of  secretarial  efficiency.  She  com- 
bines, with  ease,  those  widely  differing  qualities  which 
are  so  difficult  to  come  by  in  a  single  individual.  It  is 
inspiring  to  work  with  her.  I  find  that  her  co-operation 
actually  stimulates  creative  thought.  My  notes  are  ex- 
panding at  a  most  satisfactory  rate.  My  introductory 
chapter  already  assumes  form.  And — by  Jove !  I  seem 
to  be  doing  it  again. 

But  one  simply  does  not  make  these  discoveries  every 
day. 

The  other  aspects  of  the  situation  here,  the  non-busi- 
ness aspects,  are  not  so  satisfactory.  The  menage  is 
certainly  peculiar.  I  had  what  amounted  to  a  bloodless 
duel  with  mine  host  the  other  day.  Perhaps  I  was  not 
as  tactful  as  I  might  have  been.  But  he  is  an  irritating 
person.  One  of  those  people  who  seem  to  file  your 
'nerves.     In   fact  there   is   something   almost   upsetting 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  57 

about  that  mild  old  scoundrel.  He  gives  me  what  the 
Scots  call  a  "scunner."  (You  have  to  hear  a  true  Scot 
pronounce  it  before  you  get  its  inner  meaning.)  And 
when,  that  day,  he  began  talking  about  his  daughter's 
future  being  her  father's  care,  I  said — I  forget  exactly 
what  I  said  but  he  seemed  to  get  the  idea  all  right.  It 
annoyed  him.  We  were  both  annoyed.  He  did  not 
put  his  feelings  into  words.  He  put  them  into  his  eyes 
instead.  And  horrid,  nasty  feelings  they  were.  Quite 
murderous. 

The  duel  was  interrupted  by  Li  Ho.  Li  Ho  never  lis- 
tens but  he  always  hears.  Seems  to  have  some  quieting 
influence  over  his  ''honorable  Boss,"  too. 

But  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  old  fellow's  eyes. 
Bones.  I  think  they  might  have  told  some  tale  to  a  med- 
ical mind.  Normally,  his  eyes  are  blurry  like  the  rest 
of  his  fatherly  face.  And  their  color,  I  think,  is  blue. 
But  just  then  they  looked  like  no  eyes  I  have  ever  seen. 
A  cold  light  on  burnished  steel  is  the  only  simile  I  can 
think  of — perfect  hardness,  perfect  coldness,  lustre  with- 
out depth!  The  description  is  poor,  but  you  may  get 
the  idea  better  if  I  describe  the  effect  of  the  look  rather 
than  the  look  itself.  The  warm  spot  in  my  heart  froze. 
And  it  takes  something  fairly  eerie  to  freeze  the  heart 
at  its  core. 

From  this,  as  a  budding  psychologist,  I  draw  a  con- 
clusion— there  was  something  abnormal,  something  not 
quite  human  in  that  flashing  look.  The  conclusion  seems 
somewhat  strained  now.  But  at  the  time  I  was  undoubt- 
edly glad  to  see  Li  Ho.  Li  Ho  may  be  a  Chink,  but  he 
is  human. 

You  may  gather  that  our  ''battle  of  the  Glances"  did 
not  smooth  my  pillow  here,  li  the  old  chap  didn't  want 
me  to  stay  before,  he  is  even  less  anxious  for  my  com- 
pany now.     But  I  am  going  to  stay.     Aunt  Caroline 


58  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


would  call  this  stubbornness.  But  of  course  it  isn't.  It 
is  merely  a  certain  strength  of  character  and  a  business 
determination  to  carry  out  a  business  bargain.  Dr.  Farr 
allowed  me  to  engage  board  here  and  to  pay  for  it.  I 
am  under  no  obligation  to  take  cognizance  of  his  deep€r 
feelings. 

The  only  feelings  which  concern  me  in  this  matter  are 
the  feelings  of  his  daughter.  If  my  staying  were  to 
prove  a  burden  for  her  I  could  not,  of  course,  stay.  But 
I  see  many  ways  in  which  I  may  be  helpful,  and  I  know 
that  she  needs  and  wants  the  secretarial  work  which  I 
have  given  her.  Usually  she  holds  her  head  high  and 
one  isn't  even  allowed  to  guess.  But  one  does  guess. 
Her  meagre  ration  of  life  is  plain  beyond  all  artifice  of 
pride. 

John,  she  interests  me  intensely.  She  is  a  strange 
child.  She  is  a  strange  woman.  For  both  child  and 
woman  she  seems  to  be,  in  fascinating  combination.  But, 
lest  you  should  mistake  me,  good  old  bone-head,  let  me 
make  it  plain  that  there  is  absolutely  no  danger  of  my 
falling  in  love  with  her.  My  interest  is  not  that  kind 
of  interest.  I  am  far  too  hard  headed  to  be  susceptible. 
I  can  appreciate  the  tragedy  of  a  charming  girl  placed 
in  such  unsavory  environment,  and  feel  impelled  to  seek 
some  way  of  escape  for  her  without  being  for  one  mo- 
ment disturbed  by  that  unreasoning  madness  called  love. 
Every  student  of  psychology  understands  the  nature  and 
the  danger  of  loving.  Every  sensible  student  profits  by 
what  he  understands.  You  and  I  have  had  this  out  be- 
fore and  you  know  my  unalterable  determination  never 
to  allow  myself  to  become  the  slave  of  those  primitive 
and  passing  instincts.  Nature,  the  old  hussy,  is  welcome 
to  the  use  of  man  as  a  tool  for  her  own  purposes.  But 
there  are  enough  tools  without  me.  The  race  will  not 
perish  because  I  intend  to  remain  my  own  man. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  59 

But  I  shall  have  to  evolve  some  way  of  helping  Miss 
Farr.     She  cannot  be  left  here  under  these  conditions. 

I  am  v^^riting  to  Aunt  Caroline,  briefly,  that  I  am  im- 
mersed in  study  and  that  my  return  is  indefinite.  Don't, 
for  heaven's  sake,  let  her  suspect  that  I  have  employed 
Miss  Farr  as  secretary.  You  know  Aunt  Caroline's  fail- 
ing.    Do  be  discreet! 

Yours, 

B.  H.  S. 

P.S. :  Any  arrangement  I  may  find  it  necessary  to 
propose  in  Miss  Farr's  case  will  be  based  on  business, 
not  sentiment.  B. 


VIII 


DESIRE  was  seated  upon  a  moss-covered  rock, 
hugging  her  knees  and  gazing  out  to  sea.  It  was 
her  favorite  attitude  and,  according  to  Professor  Spence, 
a  very  dangerous  one,  especially  in  connection  with  a 
moss-covered  rock.  He  would  have  liked  to  point  out 
this  obvious  fact  but  that  would  have  been  fussy — and 
fussy  the  professor  was  firmly  determined  not  to  be. 
Aunt  Caroline  was  fussy.  The  best  he  could  do  was 
to  select  another  rock,  not  so  slippery,  and  to  provide 
an  object  lesson  as  to  the  proper  way  of  sitting  upon  it. 
Unfortunately,  Desire  was  not  looking. 

They  had  come  a  little  way  "up  trail" — at  least  Desire 
had  said  it  was  a  little  way,  and  her  companion  was  too 
proud  of  his  recovered  powers  of  locomotion  to  ex- 
prress  unkind  doubt  of  the  adjective.  There  had  been  no 
rainy  days  for  a  week.  The  air  was  sun-soaked,  and 
salt-soaked,  and  somewhere  there  was  a  wind.  But  not 
here.  Here  some  high  rock  angle  shut  it  out  and  left 
them  to  the  drowsy  calm  of  wakening  Summer.  Below 
them  lay  the  blue-green  gulf,  white-flecked  and  gently 
heaving;  above  them  bent  a  sky  which  only  Italy  could 
rival — and  if  Miss  Farr  with  her  hands  clasped  round 
her  knees  were  to  move  ever  so  little,  either  way,  there 
was  nothing  to  prevent  her  from  falling  off  the  face  of 
the  mountain.  The  professor  tried  not  to  let  this  reflec- 
tion spoil  his  enjoyment  of  the  view.  He  reminded  him- 
self that  she  was  probably  much  safer  than  she  looked. 
And  he  remembered  Aunt  Caroline.     Still 

"Don't  you  think  you  might  sit  a  little  farther  back?'* 
he  suggested  carelessly. 

60 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  61 

"Why?" 

"I  can't  talk  to  the  back  of  your  head." 

*Talk!"  dreamily,  "do  you  really  have  to  talk?*' 

Naturally  the  professor  was  silent. 

"That's  rude,  I  suppose,"  said  Desire,  suddenly  swing- 
ing round  (a  feat  which  brought  Spence's  heart  into  his 
mouth).  *T  don't  seem  to  acquire  the  social  graces  very 
rapidly,  do  I?" 

"I  thought,"  the  professor's  tone  was  somewhat  stiff, 
"that  we  came  up  here  for  the  express  purpose  of  talk- 
mg. 

"Y-es.  You  did  express  some  such  purpose.  But 
— ^must  we  ?    It  won't  do  any  good,  you  know." 

"I  don't  know.  And  it  will  do  good.  One  can't  get 
anywhere  without  proper  discussion." 

The  girl  sighed.  "Very  well — let's  discuss.  You  be- 
gin. 

"My  month,"  said  Spence  firmly,  "is  almost  up.  I 
shall  have  to  move  along  on  Friday." 

"On  Friday?"  If  •he  had  intended  to  startle  her,  he 
had  certainly  succeeded.  "Was — was  the  arrangement 
only  for  a  month?"  she  asked  in  a  lowered  voice. 

"The  arrangement  was  to  continue  for  as  long  as  I 
wished.  But  only  one  month's  payment  was  made  in  ad- 
vance. With  Friday,  Dr.  Farr's  obligation  toward  me 
ends.     He  is  not  likely  to  extend  it." 

She  sat  so  still  that  he  forgot  how  slippery  the  moss 
was  and  thought  only  of  the  growing  shadow  on  her 
face. 

"But,  the  work !"  she  murmured.  "We  are  only  just 
beginning.     I  wish — oh,  I  shall  miss  it  dreadfully." 

"  Tt,'  "  said  Spence,  "is  not  a  personal  pronoun." 

"I  shall  miss  you,  too,  of  course." 

"Well,  be  careful  not  to  overemphasize  it." 

Her  grey  eyes  looked  frankly  and  straightly  into  his. 


62  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

Their  clear  depths  held  a  rueful  smiljs.  "You  are  con- 
ceited enough  already,"  she  said,  *'but  if  it  will  make  you 
feel  any  better,  I  don't  mind  admitting  that  I  shall  miss 
you  far,  far  more  than  you  deserve." 

"Spoken  like  a  lady!"  said  Spence  warmly.  "And 
now  let  us  consider  my  side  of  it.  After  the  month  that 
I  have  spent  here — do  you  really  think  that  I  intend  to 
go  away — like  that?" 

"There  is  only  one  way  of  going,  isn't  there?" 

"Not  at  all.  There  are  various  wa3^s.  Ways  which 
are  quite,  quite  different." 

"You  have  thought  of  some  other — some  quite  dif- 
ferent way  ?" 

"Yes.  But  I  daren't  tell  it  to  you  while  you  sit  on 
that  slippery  rock.  It  is  a  somewhat  startling  way  and 
you  might — er — manifest  emotion.  I  should  prefer  to 
have  you  manifest  it  in  a  less  dangerous  place." 

Desire's  very  young  laugh  rippled  out.  "Fussy!"  she 
said.  But  nevertheless  she  climbed  down  and  sat  de- 
murely upon  stones  in  the  hollow.  There  was  an  im- 
familiar  light  in  her  waiting  eyes,  the  light  of  interest 
and  of  hope. 

Spence,  rather  to  his  consternation,  realized  that  it 
was  up  to  him  to  justify  that  hope.  And  he  wasn't  at 
all  sure  .  .  .  however,  he  had  to  go  through  with  it. 
.  .  .  There  was  a  fighting  chance,  anyway. 

"Let's  think  about  the  work  for  a  moment,"  he  began 
nervously.  "That  work,  my  book,  you  know,  is  simply 
going  all  to  pot  if  you  can't  keep  on  with  it.  You  can 
see  yourself  what  it  means  to  have  a  competent  secre- 
tary. And  you  like  the  work.  You've  just  admitted 
that  you  like  it." 

He  saw  the  light  begin  to  fade  from  her  eyes.  She 
shook  her  head. 

"If  you  are  going  to  suggest  that  I  go  with  you  as 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  63 

your  secretary,"  she  said  with  her  old  bluntness,  "it  is 
useless.  I  have  tried  that  way  out.  I  won't  try  it 
again."  Her  lips  grew  stem  and  her  eyes  dark  with 
some  too  bitter  memory. 

"I  honesdy  don't  see  what  Dr.  Farr  could  do,'*  said 
Spence  tentatively. 

''You  would,"  said  Dr.  Farr's  daughter  with  decision. 

"And  anyway,"  proceeding  hastily,  "that  wasn't  what 
I  was  thinking  of.  I  knew  that  you  would  refuse  to  go 
as  my  secretary.     I  ask  you  to  go  as  my  wife." 

Desire  rose. 

"Is  this  w^here  I  am  expected  to  manifest  emotion?'* 
she  asked  dryly. 

"Yes.  And  you're  doing  it!  I  knew  you  would. 
[Women  are  utterly  unreasoning.  You  won't  even  listen 
to  what  I  have  to  say." 

The  girl  moved  slowly  away. 

"And  I  can't  get  up  without  help,*'  he  added  queru- 
lously. 

Desire  stopped.     "You  can,**  she  said. 

"I  can't.     Not  after  that  dreadful  climb." 

"Then  I  shall  wait  until  you  are  ready.  But  we  do 
not  need  to  continue  this  conversation." 

The  professor  sighed.  "This,"  he  said,  "is  what 
comes  of  taking  a  woman  at  her  word." 

"What?" 

"I  might  have  known,"  he  went  on  guilefully,  "that 
you  didn't  really  mean  it.     No  young  girl  would." 

"Mean  whatT' 

"That  you  had  no  room  in  your  scheme  of  things  for 
ordinary  marriage.  Of  course  you  were  talking  non- 
sense.    I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Will  you  kindly  explain  what  you  mean !" 

"I  will  if  you  will  sit  down  so  that  I  may  talk  to  you 
on  my  own  level.     You  see,  your  determination  not  to 


64         •  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

marry  struck  me  very  much  at  the  time  because  it  voiced 
my  own — er — determination  also.  I  said  to  myself, 
*Here  are  two  people  sufficiently  original  to  wish  to  es- 
cape the  common  lot.'  I  thought  about  it  a  great  deal. 
And  then  an  idea  came.  It  was,  I  admit,  the  inspiration 
of  a  moment.     But  it  grew.     It  certainly  grew." 

Desire  sat  down  again  and  folded  her  hands  over  her 
knees. 

"I  will  listen.'' 

"It  is  very  simple,"  he  hastened  to  explain.  ''Sim- 
plicity is,  I  think,  the  keynote  of  all  true  inspiration.  An 
idea  comes,  and  we  are  filled  with  amazement  that  we 
have  so  long  ignored  the  obvious.  Take  our  case.  Here 
are  we  two,  strongly  of  one  mind  and  wanting  the  same 
thing.  A  perfectly  feasible  way  of  getting  that  thing 
occurs  to  me.  Yet  when  I  suggest  this  way  you  jump 
up  and  rush  away." 

"I  haven't  rushed  yet." 

"No.  But  you  were  going  to.  And  all  because  you 
cannot  be  logical.     No  woman  can." 

His  listener  brushed  this  away  with  a  gesture  of  im- 
patience. 

*T  can  prove  it,"  went  on  the  wily  one.  "You  ob- 
ject to  marriage,  yet  you  covet  the  freedom  marriage 
gives.  Now  what  is  the  logical  result  of  that?  The 
logical  result  is  fear — fear  that  some  day  you  may  want 
freedom  so  badly  that  you  will  marry  in  order  to  get  it." 

"It  is  not— I  won't." 

"I  knew  you  would  not  admit  It.  But  it  is  true  all 
the  same.  The  other  night  when  you  said  'marriage  is 
hideous,'  I  saw  fear  in  your  eyes.  There  is  fear  in  your 
eyes  now." 

The  girl  dropped  her  eyes  and  raised  them  again  in- 
stantly.    Her  slanting  eyebrows   frowned. 

"Nevertheless,"  she  said,  "I  shall  not  marry." 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  65 

*'But  you  will,  as  an  honest  person,  admit  the  other 
part  of  the  proposition — that  you  want  something  at 
least  of  what  marriage  can  give?" 

"Yes." 

**Well  then — that  states  your  case.  Now  let  me  state 
mine.  I,  too,  haye  an  insuperable  objection  to  marriage. 
My — er — disinclination  is  probably  more  soundly  based 
than  yours,  since  it  is  built  upon  a  wider  view  of  life. 
But  I,  too,  want  certain  things  which  marriage  might 
bring.  I  want  a  home.  Not  too  homey  a  home,  in 
the  strictly  domestic  sense  (Aunt  Caroline  is  strictly 
domestic)  but  a — a  congenial  home.  I  want  the  advice 
and  help  of  a  clever  woman  together  with  the  sense  of 
permanence  and  security  which,  in  our  imperfect  state 
of  civilization,  is  made  possible  only  by  marriage.  And 
I,  too,  have  my  secret  fear.  I  am  afraid  that  some  day 
I  may  be  driven — in  short,  I  am  afraid  of  Aunt  Caro- 
line." 

Desire's  inquiring  eyebrows  lifted. 

"A  man — afraid  of  his  aunt?" 

**Yes,"  gloomily,  "it  is  men  who  are  afraid  of  aunts. 
It  is  not  at  all  funny,"  he  added  as  her  eyes  relaxed,  "if 
you  knew  Aunt  Caroline  you  wouldn't  think  so.  She 
is  determined  to  have  me  married  and  she  has  a  long  life 
of  successful  effort  behind  her.  One  failure  is  nothing 
to  an  aunt.  She  is  always  quite  certain  that  the  next 
venture  will  turn  out  well.  And  it  usually  does.  In 
brief,  I  am  thirty-five  and  I  go  in  terror  of  the  imknown. 
If  I  do  not  marry  soon  to  please  myself,  I  shall  end  by 
marrying  to  please  someone  else.     Do  you  follow  me?" 

"Make  it  plainer,"  ordered  Desire  soberly.  "Make  it 
absolutely  plain." 

"I  will.  My  proposition  is,  in  its  truest  and  strictest 
sense,  a  marriage  of  convenience.  Marriage,  it  appears, 
can  give  us  both  what  we  want,  a  formal  ceremony  will 


66  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

legalize  your  position  as  my  secretary  and  free  you  en- 
tirely from  the  interference  of  your  father.  It  will  per- 
mit you  to  accept  freely  my  protection  and  everything  else 
which  I  have.  Your  way  will  be  open  to  the  things  you 
spoke  of  the  other  night,  freedom,  leisure,  money,  travel, 
books.  The  only  thing  we  are  shutting  out  is  the  thing 
you  say  you  have  no  use  for — love.  But  perhaps  you 
did  not  mean " 

"I  did." 

"Then,  logically,  my  proposal  is  sound." 

"Am  I  to  take  all  these  things,  and  give  nothing?" 

"Not  at  all.  You  give  me  the  things  I  want  most, 
freedom,  security,  the  grace  of  companionship,  and  col- 
laboration in  my  work,  so  long  as  your  interest  in  it  con- 
tinues. I  will  be  a  safely  married  man  and  you — you 
will  be  a  window-gazer  no  longer.  There  is  only  one 
point" — the  speaker's  gaze  turned  from  her  and  wan- 
dered out  to  sea — "I  can  be  sure  of  what  I  can  bring 
into  your  life,"  his  voice  was  almost  stern,  "but  I  warn 
you  to  be  very  sure  of  what  you  will  be  shutting  out." 

"You  mean?" 

"Children,"  said  Spence  crisply. 

"I  do  not  care  for  children." 

The  professor's  soberness  vanished.  "Oh — what  a 
whopper!"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  mean,  I  do  not  want  children  of  my  own." 

"But  supposing  you  were  to  develop  a  desire  for  them 
later  on?" 

She  nodded  thoughtfully. 

"I  might,"  she  acknowledged.  "But  in  my  case  it 
would  be  merely  the  outcropping  of  a  feminine  instinct, 
easily  suppressed.  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  it.  Look 
at  all  the  women  who  are  perfectly  happy  without  chil- 
dren." 

"Hum!"  said  the  professor.     "I  am  looking  at  them. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  67 

But  I  find  them  unconvincing.  There  are  a  few,  however, 
of  whom  what  you  say  is  true.  You  may  be  one  of  them. 
How  about  Sami?" 

''Sami?  Oh,  Sami  is  different.  He  is  more  like  a 
mountain  imp  than  a  child.  I  don't  think  Sami  would 
seem  real  anywhere  but  here.  If  anyone  were  to  try  to 
transplant  him  he  might  vanish  altogether.  Poor  little 
chap — how  terribly  he  would  miss  me!"  finished  Desire 
artlessly. 

She  had  accepted  the  possibility,  then !  Spence's  heart 
gave  a  leap  and  was  promptly  reproved  for  leaping.  This 
was  not,  he  reminded  himself,  an  affair  of  the  heart  at 
all.  It  was  a  coldly-thought-out,  hard-headed  business 
proposition.  Such  a  proposition  as  his  father's  son  might 
fittingly  conceive.  The  thing  to  do  now  was  to  stride  on 
briskly  and  avoid  sentiment. 

"Then  as  we  seem  to  agree  upon  the  essentials,"  he 
said,  ''there  remains  only  one  concrete  difficulty,  your 
father.  He  would  object  to  marriage  as  to  other  things, 
I  suppose?" 

''Yes,  but  we  should  have  to  ignore  that." 

"You  wouldn't  mind?"  somewhat  doubtfully. 

"No.  I  have  always  known  that  a  break  would  come 
some  day.  It  isn't  as  if  he  really  cared.  Or  as  if  I  cared. 
I  don't.  If  I  should  decide  that  there  is  an  honest  chance 
for  freedom,  a  chance  which  I  can  take  and  keep  my  self- 
respect,  I  am  conscious  of  no  duty  that  need  restrain 
me." 

Spence  said  nothing,  and  after  a  moment  she  went  on. 

"Why  should  I  pretend — as  he  pretends?  I  loath  it! 
Day  after  day,  even  when  there  is  no  one  to  see,  he  keeps 
up  that  horrible  semblance  of  affection.    And  all  the  time 

he  hates  me.    I  see  it  in  his  eyes.    And  once  or  twice " 

She  hesitated  and  then  went  rapidly  on  without  finishing 
her  sentence.    "There  is  some  reason  why  it  is  to  his  ad- 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


vantage  to  keep  me  with  him.  But  it  imposes  no  obhga- 
tion  upon  me.    I  do  not  even  know  what  it  is." 

'Terhaps  Li  Ho  may  know?" 

*'Li  Ho  does  know.  Li  Ho  knows  everything.  But 
when  I  asked  him  he  said,  'Honorable  boss  much  lonely 
— heap  scared  of  devil  maybe.'  Li  Ho  always  refers  to 
devils  when  he  doesn't  wish  to  tell  anything." 

"I've  noticed  that.  He's  a  queer  devil  himself.  Would 
he  stay  on,  do  you  think  ?" 

"Yes.  And  that's  odd,  too.  In  some  way  Li  Ho  is 
father's  man.  It's  as  if  he  owned  him.  There  must  be  a 
story  which  explains  it.  But  no  one  will  ever  hear  it.  Li 
Ho  keeps  his  secrets." 

Spence  nodded.  "Yes.  Li  Ho  and  his  kind  are  the 
product  of  forces  we  only  guess  at.  I  asked  a  man  who 
had  spent  twenty  years  in  China  if  he  had  learned  to 
understand  the  Oriental  mind.  He  said  he  had  learned 
more  than  that,  he  had  learned  that  the  Oriental  mind  is 
beyond  understanding.  But — aren't  we  getting  away 
from  our  subject?  Let's  begin  all  over  again.  Miss 
Farr,  I  have  the  honor  to  ask  your  hand  in  marriage." 

She  was  silent  for  so  long  a  time  that  the  professor 
had  opportunity  to  think  of  many  things.  And,  as  he 
thought,  his  heart  went  down — and  down.  She  would 
refuse.  He  knew  it.  The  clean  edge  of  her  mind  would 
cut  through  all  his  tangle  of  words  right  to  the  core  of  the 
real  issue.  And  the  core  of  the  real  issue  was  not  as  sound 
as  it  would  need  to  be  to  satisfy  her  demands.  For  in  that 
core  still  lay  a  possibility,  the  possibility  of  love.  He  had 
not  eliminated  love.  Many  a  man  has  loved  after  thirty- 
five.  Many  a  girl  who  has  sworn — but  no,  she  would  not 
admit  this  possibility  in  her  own  case.  It  was  only  in  his 
case  that  she  would  recognize  it.  She  would  see  the  weak 
spot  there ....  She  would  refuse.  He  could  feel  refusal 
gathering  in  her  heart.    And  his  own  heart  beat  hotly  in 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  69 

his  throat.  For  if  this  failed,  what  other  way  was  left? 
Yet  to  go  and  leave  her  here,  alone  in  that  rotting  cottage 
on  the  hill.  .  .  .  the  prey  of  any  ghastly  fate.  ...  no,  it 
couldn't  be  done.    He  must  convince  her.    He  must. 

*'My  friend,"  said  Desire  (he  loved  her  odd,  old- 
fashioned  way  of  calling  him  ''my  friend"),  **I  admit 
that  you  have  tempted  me.  But — I  can't.  It  wouldn't  be 
fair.  It  is  easy  to  feel  sure  for  one's  self  but  it's  another 
thing  to  be  sure  for  others.  A  marriage  of  that  kind 
would  not  satisfy  you.  You  say  your  outlook  is  wider 
than  mine  and  of  course  it  is.  But  I  have  seen  more  than 
you  think.  Even  men  who  are  tremendously  interested 
in  their  work,  like  you,  want — other  things.  They  want 
what  they  call  love,  even  if  to  them  it  always  sinks  to 
second  place,  if  indeed  it  means  nothing  more  than  dis- 
traction. And  love  would  mean  more  than  that  to  you. 
I  have  an  instinct  which  tells  me  that,  in  your  case,  love 
will  come.    You  must  be  free  to  take  it." 

It  was  final.  He  felt  its  finaHty,  and  more  than  ever 
he  swore  that  it  should  not  be  so.  There  must  be  an  argu- 
ment somewhere — wait ! 

''Supposing,"  said  Spence  haltingly,  "Supposing 

supposing  I  am  not  free  now  ?  Supposing  love  has  come 
— and  gone?" 

He  was  not  a  good  liar.  But  his  very  ineptitude  helped 
him  here.  It  tangled  the  words  on  his  Tongue,  it  brought 
a  convincing  dew  upon  his  forehead.  "I'd  rather  not 
talk  about  it,"  he  finished.    "But  you  see  what  I  mean." 

"Yes.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  It  might  make  a 
difference.  I  should  want  to  be  very  sure.  If  there  were 
any  chance " 

"There  is  no  chance.  Positively  none.  That  ex- 
perience, which  you  say  you  feel  was  a  necessary  experi- 
ence in  my  case,  is  over  and  done  with.    It  cannot  recur. 


70  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

I  axQ  not  the  man  to — to — "  he  was  really  unable  to  go 
on.    But  she  finished  it  for  him. 

**To  love  twice,"  said  Desire,  looking  out  over  the  sea. 
*'Yes  I  can  understand  that — what  did  you  say?" 

''I  think  I  may  be  able  to  walk  now,"  said  the  pro- 
fessor. 


IX 

TiriTH  the  recovery  of  a  leg  sufficiently  workable  in 
^  ^  the  matter  of  climbing  stairs,  Dr.  Farr's  boarder 
had  resigned  the  family  couch  in  the  sitting-room  and  had 
retired  to  his  spartan  chaml)er  under  the  eaves.  From  its 
open  window  that  night  he  watched  the  moon.  Let  noth- 
ing happen  to  the  universe  in  the  meantime,  and  there 
would  be  a  full  moon  on  Friday  night.  The  professor 
hoped  that  nothing  would  happen. 

She  had  not  exactly  said  "Yes''  yet.  He  must  not  for- 
get that.  But  it  could  do  no  harm  to  feel  reasonably  sure 
that  she  was  going  to.  He  did  not  conceal  from  himself 
that  he  had  brought  things  off  remarkably  well.  That 
last  argument  of  his  had  been  a  masterpiece  of  strategy. 
There  were  other,  shorter,  words  which  might  have  de- 
scribed it.  But  they  were  not  such  pleasant  words.  And 
when  a  thing  is  necessary  it  is  just  as  well  to  be  pleasant 
about  it.  No  harm  had  been  done.  Quite  the  opposite. 
Desire's  one  valid  objection  had  been  neatly  and  effectual- 
ly disposed  of.  And  now  the  matter  could  be  dropped.  It 
would  be  forgotten.  .  .  .  What  did  it  amount  to  in  any 
case?  Other  men  lied  every  day  saying  they  had  never 
loved.  He  had  lied  only  once  in  saying  that  he  had .... 
At  the  same  time  it  might  l>e  very  embarrassing  to. . . . 
yes,  certainly,  the  matter  must  be  dropped ! 

They  would,  he  supposed,  find  it  necessary  to  elope. . . . 
No  sense  in  looking  for  trouble !  The  old  gentleman  had 
been  odder  than  ever  the  last  day  or  so.  He  had  ceased 
even  to  pretend  that  his  guest's  presence  was  anything  but 
an  annoyance.  He  had  refused  utterly  to  enter  into  any 
connected  conversation  and  had  been  restless  and  erratic 

71 


72  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

to  a  degree.  *'Too  muchy  moon-devil,"  according  to  Li 
Ho.  That  very  afternoon  he  had  met  them  coming  down 
from  their  talk  upon  the  rocks  and  the  ironic  courtesy  of 
his  greeting  had  been  little  less  than  baleful.  At  supper 
he  had  remarked  sentimentally  upon  the  flight  of  time,  re- 
ferring to  the  nearness  of  Friday  in  a  way  eminently  cal- 
culated to  speed  the  parting  guest. 

Friday,  at  latest,  then?  If  they  were  to  go  they  would 
go  on  Friday. — Friday  and  the  full  moon. 

In  the  meantime  he  felt  no  desire  for  sleep.  The  moon, 
perhaps  ?  Certainly  there  is  nothing  in  the  mere  business- 
like prospect  of  engaging  a  permanent  secretary  to  cause 
insomnia.  The  professor  supposed  it  was  simply  his 
state  of  health  in  general.  It  might  be  a  good  idea  to 
drop  a  line  to  his  medical  man.  He  had  promised  to  re- 
port symptoms.  Besides,  it  was  only  fair  to  prepare 
John,  The  candle  was  burnt  out,  but  the  moon  w^ould  do 
— pad  on  knee,  he  began  to  write.  .  .  . 

"Beloved  Bones — I  am  writing  in  the  hope  that  the 
thought  of  you  may  cause  cerebral  exhaustion.  I  find  the 
moon  too  stimulating.  Otherwise  I  rejoice  to  report  my- 
self recovered.  I  can  walk.  I  can  climb  hills.  I  can  un- 
climb  hills,  which  is  much  worse,  and  I  eat  so  much  that 
I'm  ashamed  to  look  my  board  money  in  the  face.  You 
might  gently  prepare  Aunt  Caroline  by  some  mention  of 
an  improved  appetite. 

I  had  a  letter  from  Aunt  Caroline  yesterday.  That  is 
to  say,  three  letters.  When  you  included  (by  request) 
''positively  no  letter  writing"  in  my  holiday  menu,  you 
did  not  make  it  plain  who  it  was  that  was  positively  not  to 
write.  So,  although  she  tells  me  sadly  that  she  expects  no 
answers,  Aunt  Caroline  positively  does.  I  may  say  at 
once  that  I  know  all  the  news. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  some  news  which  Aunt 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  73 

Caroline  does  not  know.  Owing  to  your  embargo  on 
letters,  I  have  not  been  able  to  inform  my  Aunt  of  the 
progress  of  my  book,  nor  of  my  discovery  of  the  perfect 
secretary.  I  have  not,  in  short,  been  able  to  tell  her 
anything. 

So  you  will  have  to  do  it  for  me. 

But  first,  as  man  to  man,  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question. 
Having  found,  by  an  extraordinary  turn  of  luck,  the 
perfect  secretary,  would  you  consider  me  sane  if  I  let  her 
go?  Of  course  you  would  not.  I  asked  myself  the  same 
question  yesterday  and  received  the  same  answer. 

So  I  have  asked  her  to  marry  me. 

I  put  it  that  way  because  I  know  you  like  to  have 
things  broken  to  you.  And  now,  having  heard  all  your 
objections  (oh,  yes,  I  can  hear  them.  Distance  is  only  an 
idea)  I  shall  proceed  to  answer  them 

No.  It  is  not  unwise  to  marry  a  young  girl  whom  I 
scarcely  know.  Why  man!  That  is  part  of  the  game. 
Think  of  the  boredom  of  having  to  live  with  some  one 
you  know?  Someone  in  whose  house  of  life  you  need 
expect  no  odd  corners,  no  unlooked  for  turnings,  no  steps 
up,  or  down,  no  windows  with  a  view  ?  Only  a  madman 
would  face  such  monotony. 

No.  It  is  not  unfair  to  the  other  party.  The  other 
party  has  a  mind  and  is  quite  capable  of  making  it  up. 
She  will  not  marry  me  unless  she  jolly  well  wants  to.  Far 
more  than  most  people,  I  think,  she  has  the  gift  of  de- 
cision. Neither  is  it  as  if  what  I  have  to  offer  her  were 
not  bona  fide.  Take  me  on  my  merits  and  I'm  not  a  bad 
chap.  My  life  may  have  been  tame  but  it  has  been  clean. 
(Only  don't  tell  Aunt  CaroHne).  I  have  a  sufficiency  of 
money.  What  I  promise,  I  shall  perform.  And  as  for 
ancestors — Well,  I  refer  everyone  to  Aunt  Caroline  for 
ancestors.    If  Miss  Desire  marries  me  she  will  receive  all 


74  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

that  is  in  the  bond  and  any  little  frills  which  I  may  be 
able  to  slip  in.  (There  will  not  be  many  frills,  though,  for 
my  lady  is  proud.) 

Yes.  Aunt  Caroline  will  make  a  fuss.  I  trust  you  will 
bear  up  under  it  for  my  sake.  I  think  it  will  be  well  for 
her  to  learn  of  my  marriage  sufficiently  long  before  our 
return  to  insure  resignation,  at  least,  upon  our  arrival. 
After  the  storm  the  calm,  and  although,  with  my  dear 
Aunt,  the  calm  is  almost  the  more  devastating,  I  trust  you 
will  acquit  yourself  with  fortitude. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  only  valid  objection,  which 
you  have,  strong-mindedly,  left  until  the  last — my  pros- 
pective father-in-law!  He  is  a  very  objectionable  old 
party,  and  I  do  not  mind  your  saying  so.  But  one  simply 
can't  have  everything.  And  Bainbridge  is  a  long  way 
from  Vancouver.  Also,  as  a  husband  I  can  take  prece- 
dence, and,  by  George,  I'll  do  it !  So  you  see  your  objec- 
tion is  really  an  extra  inducement.  It  is  only  by  marrying 
the  daughter  of  Dr.  Farr  that  I  can  protect  Dr.  Farr's 
daughter. 

Are  you  satisfied  now  ?  I  don't  know  whether  I  men- 
tioned it,  but  she  hasn't  actually  said  "yes"  yet.  She  had 
certain  objections,  or  rather  a  certain  objection  which  I 
found  it  necessary  to  meet  in  a — a  somewhat  regrettable 
manner.  I  was  compelled  to  adopt  strategy.  She 
thought  our  proposed  contract  (we  do  things  in  a  busi- 
ness manner)  might  not  be  quite  fair  to  me.  She  was 
ready  to  admit  that  I  was  getting  a  good  thing  in  secre- 
taries but  she  feared  that,  later  on,  I  might  wish  to  miake 
a  change.  I  had  to  meet  this  scruple  somehow  and  I 
seemed  to  know  by  instinct  that  she  would  not  believe  me 
if  I  expounded  those  theories  of  love  and  marriage  which 
you  know  I  so  strongly  hold.  Pure  reason  would  not 
appeal  to  her.     So  I  had  to  fall  back  upon  sentiment. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  75 

Instead  of  saying,  "I  shall  never  love.  It  is  impossible,'* 
I  said,  "I  have  loved.    It  is  over." 

Sound  tactics,  don't  you  think?. . . .  Well  I  don't  care 
what  you  think!  I  have  to  get  this  girl  safely  placed 
somehow. 

We  shall  have  to  elope  probably.  Fancy,  an  elopement 
at  thirty-five!  The  father  seems  to  consider  her  con- 
tinued presence  here  as  vital  to  his  interest,  though  why, 
neither  of  us  can  understand.  Well,  I'm  not  exactly 
afraid  of  the  old  chap  but  it  will  certainly  be  easier  for 
her  if  there  are  no  wild  farewells.  Therefore  we  shall 
probably  fold  our  tent  like  the  Arabs  and  steal  away  as 
silently  as  the  *Tillicum"  will  allow. 

Li  Ho  will  have  to  be  told.  He  will  know  anyway,  so 
we  may  as  well  tell  him.  It  appears  that  whatever  may 
be  the  reasons  for  keeping  a  young  girl  buried  here,  they 
do  not  extend  to  Li  Ho.  It  will  not  be  the  first  time  that 
his  Chinese  inscrutability  has  assisted  at  a  (temporary) 
departure. 

I  shall  let  Aunt  Caroline  know  as  soon  as  the  act  is 
irrevocable  and  shall  inform  you  at  the  same  time  so  that 
you  may  not  be  unprepared.  You  realize,  I  suppose,  that 
you  will  be  accused  of  being  accessory?  Didn't  you  tell 
me  that  a  trip  would  do  me  good  ? 

We  shall  not  come  home  for  a  few  weeks.  My  secre- 
tary has  spoken  of  an  old  Indian  whom  she  knows,  a 
perfect  mine  of  simon-pure  folk-lore.  He  lives  some- 
where up  the  coast,  about  a  day's  journey,  I  think.  We 
may  visit  him.  With  her  to  interpret  for  me,  I  may  get 
some  very  valuable  notes.  I  may  add  that  we  are  both 
very  keen  on  notes.  When  we  have  done  what  can  be 
done  out  here,  we  shall  come  home.  The  fall  and  winter 
we  shall  spend  upon  the  book.  My  secretary  will  insist 
upon  attending  to  business  first.     And  then — well,  then. 


76  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

she  wants  to  go  shopping".    So  we  shall  have  to  go  where 
the  good  shops  are. 

What  does  she  wish  to  buy?    Oh^  not  much — just  life, 
the  assorted  kind. 

B.  H.  S. 


IT  was  the  day  before  Friday.  Friday,  so  very  near, 
seemed  already  palpably  present  in  the  surcharged  air 
of  the  cottage.  No  one  mentioned  it,  but  that  made  its 
nearness  more  potent.  At  his  usual  hour  for  dictation, 
Professor  Spence  had  come  out  upon  the  narrow 
veranda.  But,  although  his  secretary  was  there,  pencil  in 
hand,  he  had  not  dictated.  Instead  he  had  sat  contem- 
plating Friday  so  long  that  his  secretary  tapped  her  foot 
in  impatience. 

"Are  you  really  lazy?'*  she  asked,  "Or  are  you  just 
pretending  to  be  ?" 

'1  am  really  lazy.  All  truly  gifted  people  are.  You 
know  what  Wilde  says,  'Real  industry  is  simply  the  ref- 
uge of  people  who  have  nothing  to  do.'  " 

The  prompt,  "Who  is  Wilde?"  of  the  secretary  did  not 
disconcert  him.  He  had  discovered  that  her  ignorance 
was  as  unusual  as  her  knowledge. 

"Who  is  Wilde  ?  Oh,  just  a  Httle  bit  of  EngHsh  litera- 
ture. Christian  name  of  Oscar.  You'll  come  across  him 
when  you  go  shopping." 

A  faint  pucker  appeared  between  the  secretary's  eye- 
brows. 

"You  are  coming  shopping,  aren't  you?"  asked  Spence, 
faintly  stressing  the  verb. 

"I — want  to." 

"That's  settled  then." 

The  pucker  grew  more  pronounced.  The  secretary  re- 
signed all  hope  of  dictation  and  laid  down  her  pencil. 

"Tomorrow,"  reminded  Spence  gently,  "is  Friday." 

"Yes,  I  know.  And  if  I  go,  do  I — we — go  tomorrow?" 

77 


78  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

'It  would  be  advisable." 

'The  time  doesn't  matter,"  mused  Desire.  "But— do 
you  mind  if  I  speak  quite  plainly?" 

''Not  at  all.    You  have  hardened  me  to  plain  speaking." 

"I  have  been  thinking  over  what  you  told  me.  It  does 
make  a  difference.  I  see  that  I  need  not  be  afraid  of — of 
what  I  was  afraid  of.  It's  as  if — as  if  we  had  both  had 
the  measles." 

"You  can  take "  began  Spence,  but  stopped  him- 
self. It  would  never  do  to  remind  her  that  one  may  take 
the  measles  twice. 

"Of  course  you  won't  believe  it,  not  for  a  long  time 
anyway,"  she  went  on  in  the  tone  of  an  indulgent  grand- 
mother, "but  love  is  only  an  episode.  You  are  fortunate 
to  be  well  over  it." 

Spence  sighed.  He  hadn't  intended  to  sigh.  It  just 
happened.     Fortunately  it  was  the  correct  thing. 

"I  don't  want  to  distress  you,"  kindly,  "but  we  were 
rather  vague  the  other  night.  I  understood  the  main  fact, 
but  that  is  about  all.  You  didn't  tell  me  what  happened 
after." 

The  professor's  chair,  which  had  been  tilted  negligently 
back,  came  down  with  a  thud. 

"After?"  he  murmured  meekly.     "After—?" 

"I  mean,"  prompted  Desire  gently,  "did  she  marry  the 
other  man?" 

"The  other  man?  I— I  don't  know."  The  professor 
was  willing  to  be  truthful  while  he  could. 

But  instantly  he  saw  that  it  wouldn't  do. 

*'You— don't — know?"  If  ever  incredulity  breathed 
in  any  voice  it  breathed  in  hers.  It  gave  our  weak- 
kneed  liar  the  brace  that  he  needed. 

"No,"  he  said  sadly,  "they  were  to  have  been  married — 
I  have  never  heard." 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  79 

"Oh !  Then,  of  course,  she  did  not  live  in  your  home 
town." 

"Didn't  she?"  asked  Spence,  momentarily  off  guard. 
"Oh,  I  see  what  you  mean — no,  naturally  not." 

"I  thought  that  perhaps  you  might  have  been  boy  and 
girl  together,"  dreamily.    "It  so  often  happens." 

"It  does,"  said  Spence.  "But  it  didn't." 

"And  is  there  no  one — no  friend,  from  whom  you 
could  naturally  inquire?  You  feel  you  wouldn't  care  to 
ask  anyone  ?" 

"Ask?    Good  heavens,  no — certainly  not!" 

"Men  are  queer,"  said  Desire  naively.  "A  woman 
would  just  simply  have  to  ask." 

"She  would." 

"You  think  me  inquisitive?"  Her  quick  brain  had  not 
missed  the  dry  implication  of  his  tone.  "But  you  see  I 
had  to  know  something.  It's  all  right,  I'm  sure.  But  it 
would  have  been  so  much — more  comfortable  if  she  were 
quite  married." 

(Oh  course  it  would — why  in  thunder  hadn't  he 
thought  of  that?  The  professor  was  much  annoyed  with 
himself.) 

"She  is  probably  quite,  utterl)^  married  long  ago,"  he 
said  gloomily.     "What  possible  difference  can  it  make  ?" 

"None.  Don't  look  so  bitter!  Perhaps  I  should  not 
have  asked  questions.  I  won't  ask  any  more — except  one. 
Would  you  mind  very  much  telling  me  her  name?" 

Her  name ! 

The  harassed  man  looked  wildly  around.  But  there 
was  no  escape.  Not  even  Sami  was  in  sight.  Only  a 
jeering  crow  flapped  black  wings  and  laughed  dis- 
cordantly. 

"Just  her  first  name,  you  know,"  added  Desire 
reasonably. 

"Oh  yes — certainly.     No,  of  course  I  don't  mind.     I 


8o  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


am  quite  willing  to  tell  you  her  name.  But — do  you 
mean  her  real  name  or — or — the  name  she  was  usually 
called  ?"    The  professor  was  sparring  wildly  for  time. 

''Wasn't  she  called  by  her  real  name?" 

"Well— er— not  always." 

Desire's  eyebrows  became  very  slanting.  ''Any  name 
will  do,"  she  said  coldly. 

The  professor  gathered  himself  together.  "Her 
name,"  he  said  triumphantly,  **Was — is  Mary." 

He  had  done  well  for  himself  this  time!  His  ques- 
tioner was  plainly  satisfied  with  the  name  Mary.  Perhaps 
lying  gets  easier  as  you  go  on.    He  hoped  so. 

"My  mother's  name  was  Mary,"  said  Desire.  "It  is  a 
lovely  name." 

Spence  felt  very  proud  of  himself.  Not  only  had  he 
produced  a  lovely  name  in  the  space  of  three  seconds  and 
a  half,  but  he  had  also  provided  a  not-to-be-missed  oppor- 
tunity of  changing  the  subject. 

"I  suppose  you  do  not  remember  your  mother,"  he  said 
tentatively. 

"Oh  yes,  I  do,  although  I  was  quite  small  when  she 
died.  Father  says  I  fancy  some  of  the  things  I  remem- 
ber. Perhaps  I  do.  I  always  dream  very  vividly.  And 
fact  and  dream  are  easily  confused  in  a  child's  mind.  My 
most  distinct  memories  are  detached,  like  pictures,  with- 
out any  before  or  after  to  explain  them.  There  is  one, 
for  instance,  about  waking  up  in  the  woods  at  night, 
wrapped  in  my  mother's  shawl  and  seeing  her  face,  all 
frightened  and  white,  wath  the  moon,  like  a  great,  silver 
eye,  shining  through  the  trees.  But  I  can't  imagine  why 
my  mother  would  be  hiding  in  the  woods  at  night." 

"Why  hiding?" 

"There  is  a  sense  of  hiding  that  comes  with  the  memory 
— ^without  anything  to  account  for  it.  But,  although  I  do 
not  remember  connected  incidents  very  well,  I  remember 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  81 

her — the  feeling  of  having  her  with  me.  And  the  terrible 
emptiness  afterwards.  If  she  had  gone  quite  away,  all 
at  once,  I  couldn't  have  borne  it." 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  had  a  long  illness?"  asked 
Spence,  greatly  interested. 

*'No.  She  died  suddenly.  It  was  just — you  will  call 
it  silly  imagination — "  she  broke  off  uncertainly. 

"I  might  call  it  imagination  without  the  adjective." 

"Yes.  But  it  wasn't.  It  was  real.  The  sense,  I  mean, 
that  she  hadn't  gone  away.  Nothing  that  wasn't  real 
would  have  been  of  the  slightest  use." 

"It  all  depends  on  how  we  define  reality.  What  seems 
real  at  one  time  may  seem  unreal  at  another." 

She  nodded. 

"That  is  just  what  has  happened.  I  am  not  sure,  now. 
The  sense  of  nearness  left  me  as  I  grew  up.  But  at  that 
time,  I  lived  by  it.    Do  you  find  the  idea  absurd  ?" 

"Why  should  I  ?  Our  knowledge  of  our  own  concious- 
ness  is  the  absurdity.  All  we  know  is  that  our  normal 
waking  consciousness  is  only  one  special  type.  Around  it 
lie  potential  forms  of  consciousness  entirely  different, 
and  quite  as  real.  Sometimes  we,  or  it,  or  they,  break 
through.  I  am  paraphrasing  James.  Do  you  know 
James  ?" 

"I  have  read  'Daisy  Miller.'  " 

"This  James  was  the  Daisy  Miller  man's  brother." 

"Did  he  believe  in  the  possibility  of  the  dead  helping 
the  living?" 

"He  believed  in  all  kinds  of  possibilities.  But  I  don't 
think  he  considered  that  possibility  proven." 

"It  couldn't  be  proved,  could  it?"  asked  Desire  thought- 
fully. "Experiences  like  that  are  so  intensely  individual. 
One  cannot  pass  them  on." 

"Can  you  describe  yours  at  all?" 

"Hardly.    It  was  just  a  feeling  of  Presence.    A  sense 


82  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


of  her  being  there.  Iv  came  at  all  sorts  of  times  and  in  all 
sorts  of  places.  We  lived  in  Vancouver  when  mother 
died.  It  was  a  much  smaller  town  then,  not  like  the  city 
you  have  seen.  But  after  her  death  we  moved  about  a 
great  deal,  never  staying  very  long  anywhere,  until  we 
came  here.  There  were — experiences."  Her  eyes 
hardened.  ''But,  as  long  as  I  had  that  sense  I  am  speak- 
ing of,  I  was  safe.  I  used  to  have  long  crying  fits  in  the 
dark,  a  kind  of  blind  terror  of  everything.  And  after  one 
of  them  it  nearly  always  came.  I  never  questioned  it. 
Never  once  did  I  ask  myself,  Ts  it  mother?'.  I  just  knew 
that  it  was.    There  seemed  nothing  unusual  about  it." 

"Was  there  no  one,  no  woman,  to  take  care  of  you?" 

"There  w^ere — w^omen."  Desire's  Hps  tightened  into 
a  thin  red  line.  "We  did  not  travel  alone.  Once  I  re- 
member terrifying  a — a  friend  of  father's  who  was  'look- 
ing after'  me.  She  heard  me  crying  in  my  little,  dark 
room  one  night,  and  as  soon  as  she  could  slip  away,  came 
in.  She  was  a  kindly  sort.  But  when  she  got  there  I  was 
quite  content  and  happy — which  surprised  her  much  more 
than  the  cr}ang  had  done.  She  asked  me  what  had  'shut 
me  up,'  and  I  said  'My  mother  is  here — go  away.'  She 
turned  quite  pasty-white  and  the  candle  shook  so  that  the 
hot  grease  fell  upon  my  hands." 

"What  a  life  for  a  child!"  exclaimed  Spence  in  sudden 
rage.  "Desire  dear,  you  must  come  with  me!  I  couldn't 
— couldn't  leave  you  here.  I — oh,  dash  it!  I  mean,  it's 
so  evident,  isn't  it,  that  we  need  each  ohter?" 

"You  really  and  truly  need  me?"  doubtfully. 

"Really  and  truly." 

"But  if  I  come,  you  ought  to  know  something  of  the 
life  I  have  lived.  You  must  realize  that  I  am  not  an 
innocent  young  girl." 

"Aren't  you?"  The  professor  found  it  difficult  to  say 
this  with  the  proper   inflection.     It  did   not  sound   as 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  83 

business-like  as  he  could  have  wished.  But  she  was  tcx) 
much  absorbed  to  notice. 

"No.  I've  seen  things  which  young  girls  do  not  see. 
I  have  heard  things  which  are  never  whispered  before 
them.  No  one  cared  particularly  what  I  saw  or  heard. 
When  I  was  smaller  there  was  always  someone — some 
'housekeeper.'  They  were  all  kinds.  None  of  them  ever 
stayed  long.  Looking  back,  it  seems  as  if  they  passed  like 
lurid  shadows.  Only  one  of  them  seemed  a  real  person. 
The  others  were  husks.  Her  name  was  Lily.  She  was 
very  stout,  her  face  was  red  and  her  voice  loud.  But 
there  was  something  real  about  Lily.  And  she  was  fond 
of  children.  She  liked  me.  She  went  out  of  her  lazy 
way  to  teach  me  wisdom — oh,  yes,  it  was  wisdom,"  in 
answer  to  Spence's  horrified  exclamation,  "hard,  sordid 
wisdom,  the  only  wisdom  which  would  have  helped  me 
through  the  back  alleys  of  those  days.  I  am  tmspeak- 
ably  grateful  to  Lily.  She  spared  me  much,  and  once  she 
saved  me — I  can't  tell  you  about  that,"  she  finished 
simply. 

Spence  bit  his  lip  on  a  word  to  which  the  expression  of 
his  face  gave  force  and  meaning.  But  Desire  was  not 
looking  at  him. 

"Do  you  see  why  I  am  different  from  other  girls?" 
She  asked  gravely. 

The  professor  restrained  himself.  "I  see  that  you  are 
different,"  he  said.  "I  don't  care  why.  But  I'm  glad  that 
you  have  told  me  what  you  have.     It  explains  something 

that  has  bothered  me "  he  paused  seeking  words.  But 

she  caught  up  his  thought  with  lightning  intuition. 

"You  mean  it  explains  why  marriage  isn't  beautiful  to 
me,  like  it  may  be  to  a  sheltered  girl  ?  Yes.  I  wanted 
you  to  see  that.  It  may  be  holy,  but  it  isn't  holy  to  me. 
I  want  to  live  my  life  apart  from  all  that.     To  me  it  is 


84  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

smirched  and  sodden  and  hateful.  And  now,  do  you  still 
wish  me  to  come  and  be  your  secretary?" 

"Now  more  than  ever,"  said  Spence.  It  was  only  the 
sealing  of  a  business  transaction.  But  greatly  to  his 
annoyance  he  could  not  entirely  control  a  certain  warmth 
and  eagerness. 

Desire  held  out  a  frank  hand. 

"Then  I  will  marry  you  when  you  are  ready,"  she  said. 


XI 

Being  a  delayed  letter  from  Dr.  John  Rogers  to  his 
friend  and  patient,  Benis  Ha?nilton  S pence. 

DEAR  Idiot :  I  knew  you  would  get  it — and  you  got 
it.  Perhaps  after  this  you  will  learn  to  treat  your 
sciatic  nerve  with  proper  respect.  But  there  is  a  worse 
complaint  than  sciatica.  It  lasts  longer.  Certain  symp- 
toms of  it  are  indicated  in  the  things  which  your  letter 
leaves  unsaid.     Beans,  old  thing,  you  alarm  me. 

Now  here  is  a  sporting  offer.  If  you'll  drop  it  and 
come  home  at  once  I'll  promise  never  to  tell  Aunt  Caro- 
line. Come  the  moment  you  can  put  foot  to  the  ground. 
And,  until  then,  I  recommend  strict  seclusion  and  no 
nursing.  Nursing  might  well  be  fatal.  Stick  to  Li  Ho. 
He  is  your  only  chance. 

Your  Aunt  Caroline  sends  her  love.  (I  told  her  I  was 
writing  you  directions  for  further  treatment).  She  feels 
the  deprivation  of  your  letters  keenly.  She  can't  see  why 
the  writing  of  a  nice,  chatty  letter  to  one's  only  living 
Aunt  should  prove  an  undue  drain  upon  nervous  energy. 
Life  has  taught  her  not  to  expect  consideration  from 
realtives,  but  it  does  seem  hard  that  her  only  sister's  boy 
should  treat  her  as  if  she  were  the  scarlet  fever.  To 
allow  himself  to  be  ordered  away  from  home  for  a  rest 
cure  was  certainly  less  than  courteous.  To  anyone  not 
understanding  the  situation  it  would  almost  imply  that 
his  home  was  not  restful.  And  after  all  the  trouble  she 
had  taken  even  to  the  extent  of  strained  relations  with 
those  Macfarland  people  who  own  a  rooster.  If  the 
slight  had  been  aimed  entirely  at  herself  she  could  have 
taken  it  silently,  but  when  it  included  the  three  or  four 

85 


86  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

charming  girls  whom  she  had  asked  to  visit  (one  at  a 
time)  for  the  purpose  of  providing  pleasant  company, 
she  felt  obliged  to  protest.  Although  protest,  she  knew, 
was  useless.  All  this,  however,  she  could  have  borne. 
The  thing  that  she  could  scarcely  forgive  was  the  slight 
offered  to  his  native  town  by  a  departure  three  days  be- 
fore the  set  date,  thereby  turning  his  ''going  away"  tea 
into  a  ''gone  away" — an  action  considered  by  all  (in- 
vited) Bainbridge  as  a  personal  insult. 

Pause  here  for  breath. 

To  continue.  Your  Aunt  Caroline  does  not  believe  in 
rest  cures  anyway.  She  thinks  poultices  are  much  more 
effective.  It  stands  to  reason  that  if  a  thing  is  in,  it 
ought  to  come  out.  Rest  cures  are  just  laziness.  But, 
thank  goodness,  she  never  expected  anything  from  the 
Spence  family  but  laziness.  And  she  had  told  her  sister 
so  before  she  married  into  it.  .  .  . 

Allow  an  hour  here  for  ancestral  history  with  appropri- 
ate comment  and  another  hour  for  a  brief  review  of  your 
own  conduct  from  youth  up  and  we  come  within  measur- 
able distance  of  a  few  words  by  me.  I  took  up  the  point 
of  the  four  or  five  nice  girls  who  had  been  invited  to  visit. 
I  put  the  whole  thing  down  to  shock  and  pointed  out  that 
patience  is  required.  A  return  to  physical  normality,  I 
said,  would  doubtless  bring  with  it  a  re\aving  interest  in 
the  sex.  It  was  indeed  very  fortunate,  I  told  her,  that 
you  were,  at  present,  indifferent.  Any  question  of  select- 
ing a  life  partner  in  your  present  nervous  state  would  be 
most  dangerous.  Your  power  of  judgment,  I  pointed 
out,  was  temporarily  jarred  and  out  of  gear.  You  might 
marry  anybody.  The  only  safe,  the  only  humane  way, 
was  to  give  you  time  to  recover  yourself. 

"Power  of  judgment !"  said  Aunt  Caroline.  "Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  my  sister's  son  is  in  danger  of  be- 
coming an  idiot?" 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  87 

I  said  not  exactly  an  idiot.  Yet  your  strong  disinclina- 
tion toward  marriage  could  certainly  be  traced  to  a 
shocked  condition  of  the  nerves.    Certain  fixed  ideas 

'Tixed  ideas!"  said  your  Aunt.  She  has  a  particularly 
annoying  habit  of  repeating  one's  words.  ''Benis  has 
always  had  fixed  ideas — though  when  he  was  young," 
she  added  with  satisfaction,  ''I  knew  how  to  unfix  them. 
If  this  absurd  rest  cure  can  do  anything  to  cure  chronic 
stubbornness,  Fve  nothing  to  say.  Why,  even  his  father 
was  easier  to  manage." 

''Benis,"  I  said,  ^'considers  himself  very  like  his 
father." 

''Does  he?"  retorted  your  dear  Aunt  with  withering 
scorn.  "He  is  just  as  much  like  his  father  as  a  lemon  is 
like  a  lobster." 

This  ended  our  conversation.  But  the  effect  of  it  is 
still  with  me.  Last  night  I  dreamed  of  lemons  and  today 
I  prescribed  lobster  for  a  man  with  acute  dyspepsia.  I 
tell  you  what,  you  old  shirker,  it's  up  to  you  to  come  home 
and  bear  your  own  Aunt.    I'm  through.  Bones. 

P.S.  The  office  nurse  has  been  changed  since  you  left. 
I  have  now  Miss  Watkins,  returned  from  overseas.  I 
think  you  knew  her — name  of  Mary?  Very  good  look- 
ing— almost  her  only  fault. 

P. P.S.  What  you  say  about  your  pleasant  old  gentle- 
man with  the  umbrella  sounds  very  much  like  masked 
epilepsy.  Ought  to  be  under  treatment.  I  should  say 
dangerous. 

S.O.S.  Aunt  Caroline  has  just  'phoned  to  know 
whether  all  letter-writing  is  barred  or  if  not,  wouldn't  it 
be  helpful  if  you  were  to  drop  a  line  to  a  few  of  your 
young  friends?  For  herself  she  expects  nothing,  but  she 
does  think,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. ! 

Come  back!  B. 


XII 

Comprising  a  lengthy  letter  from  Bents  Spence  to  John 
Rogers,  M,D. 

DEAR  and  Venerable  Bones:  Your  fatherly  letter 
came  too  late.  What  was  going  to  happen  has  hap- 
pened. But  I  will  be  honest  and  admit  that  its  earlier 
arrival  would  have  made  no  difference.  Calm  yourself 
with  the  thought  that  our  fates  are  written  upon  our  fore- 
heads. I  have  been  able  to  read  mine  for  some  little  time 
now.  For  there  are  some  things  w^hich  are  impossible  and 
leaving  Desire  here  was  one  of  them. 

I  call  her  ''Desire"  to  you  because  it  is  what  you  will 
be  calling  her  soon.  Strange,  how  that  small  fact  seems 
to  place  her!  Fancy  my  marrying  someone  whom  you 
would  naturally  call  "Mrs.  Spence"?  There  are  such 
people.  All  Aunt  Caroline's  young  friends  are  like  that. 
You  would  say,  "I  have  looked  forward  to  meeting  you, 
Mrs.  Spence,"  and  she  would  giggle  and  say,  ''Oh,  Dr. 
Rogers,  I  have  heard  my  husband  speak  of  you  so  often !" 
But  Desire  will  say,  "So  this  is  John."  And  then  she 
will  look  at  you  with  that  detached  yet  interested  look 
and  you  will  find  yourself  saying  "Desire"  before  you 
think  of  it.    You  see,  she  belongs. 

But  before  I  bring  you  up  to  date  with  regard  to  recent 
events,  I  had  better  tell  you  a  few  facts  about  my  more 
remote  past.  I  refer  to  Mary.  I  have  already  told  you 
that  I  found  a  past  necessary.  At  that  time  I  hoped  that 
something  fairly  abstract  would  do.  But  Desire  does 
not  like  abstractions.  She  likes  to  "know  where  she  is." 
So  I  had  to  tell  her  about  Mary.    I'll  tell  you,  too,  before 

88 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  89 

I  forget  details  and  for  heaven's  sake  gel  them  right! 
You  never  can  tell  when  your  knowledge  may  be  needed. 
In  the  first  place  there  is  the  name.  I'm  rather  proud  of 
that.  I  had  to  choose  it  at  a  moment's  notice  and  I  did 
not  hesitate.  Desire  herself  says  it  is  a  lovely  name. 
And  so  safe — amn't  I  right  in  the  impression  that  every 
second  girl  in  Bainbridge  and  elsewhere  is  called  Mary? 
Mary,  my  Mary,  might  be  anybody. 

Here,  then,  are  the  main  facts.  I  have  had  (pre-war) 
a  serious  attachment.  It  was  an  affection  tragically  mis- 
placed. She  did  not  love  me.  She  loved  another.  She 
may,  or  may  not,  have  married  him.  (It  would  have  been 
better  to  have  had  the  marriage  certain,  but  I  didn't  see  it 
in  time.)  I  will  never  care  for  another  woman.  Her 
name  was  Mary.  Please  tabulate  this  romance  where 
you  can  put  your  hand  on  it.  I  may  need  your  help  at 
any  time.  As  a  doctor  your  aid  would  be  invaluable 
should  it  become  necessary  for  Mary  to  decease. 

And  now  to  leave  romance  for  reality.  Your  long  and 
lucid  discourse  on  masked  epilepsy  was  most  helpful.  It 
was  almost  as  informing  as  Li  Ho's  diagnosis  of 
"moon-devil."  Both  have  the  merit  of  leaving  the  in- 
quirer with  an  open  mind.  However — let's  get  on.  If 
you  have  had  my  later  letters  you  will  know  that  circum- 
stances indicated  an  elopement.  But  the  more  I  thought 
of  eloping,  the  more  I  disliked  the  idea.  My  father  was 
not  a  man  who  would  have  eloped.  And,  in  spite  of  Aunt 
Caroline's  lobsters  and  lemons,  I  am  very  like  my  father. 
"That  I  have  stolen  away  this  old  man's  daughter — " 
Somehow  it  seemed  very  Othelloish.  I  decided  to  sim- 
ply tell  Dr.  Farr,  calmly  and  reasonably,  that  Desire  and  I 
had  decided  to  marry.  I  did  tell  him.  I  was  calm  and 
reasonable.    But  he  wasn't. 

There  is  a  bit  of  sound  tactics  which  says,  *'Never  let 
the  enemy  surprise  you."     But  how  is  one  to  keep  him 


90  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

from  doing  it  if  he  insists?  The  surer  you  are  that  the 
enemy  is  going  to  do  a  certain  thing,  the  more  surprised 
you  are  when  he  doesn't.  Now  I  feh  sure  that  when  Dr. 
Farr  heard  the  news  he  would  have  a  fit.  I  expected  him 
to  use  language  and  even  his  umbrella.  But  nothing  of 
this  kind  happened.  He  simply  sat  there  like  a  slightly 
faded  and  vague  old  gentleman  and  said  "So?" — just 
like  that. 

I  assured  him,  as  delicately  as  possible  that  it  was  so. 

Then,  without  warning,  he  began  to  weep.  John,  it 
was  horrible !  I  can't  describe  it.  You  would  have  to  see 
his  blurred  old  face  and  depthless  eyes  before  you  could 
understand.  Tears  are  healthy,  normal  things.  They 
were  never  meant  for  faces  like  his.  I  m.ust  have  said 
something,  in  a  kind  of  horror,  for  he  got  up  suddenly 
and  trotted  off  into  the  woods,  without  as  much  as  a 
whisper. 

It  looked  like  an  easy  victory.  But  I  knew  it  wasn't. 
I  admit  that  I  felt  rather  sorry  we  had  not  eloped.  Li 
Ho  made  me  still  sorrier. 

"Not  much  good,  you  make  honorable  Boss  cly,"  said 
Li  Ho.    "Gettie  mad  heap  better." 

I  felt  that,  as  usual,  Li  Ho  was  right.  And,  just  here, 
let  me  interpose  that  I  am  quite  sure  Li  Ho  can  speak 
perfectly  good  English  if  he  wishes.  He  certainly  under- 
stands it.  I  have  tried  to  puzzle  him  often  by  measured 
and  academic  speech  and  never  yet  has  he  missed  the 
faintest  shade  of  meaning.  So  I  did  not  waste  time  with 
Pigeon  English.     I  told  him  the  facts  briefly. 

"Me  no  likee,"  said  Li  Ho. 

"You  don't  have  to,"  said  I. 

Li  Ho  explained  that  it  was  not  the  contemplated 
marriage  which  received  his  disapproval  but  the  circum- 
stances  surrounding   it.     "Me  muchy   glad   Missy   get 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  91 

mallied/'  said  he.  "Ladies  so  do,  velly  nice !  When  you 
depart  to  go  ?" 

'Tomorrow,"  I  said.  Since  we  had  given  up  the  elope- 
ment it  seemed  more  dignified  to  wait  and  depart  by 
daylight. 

Li  Ho  shook  his  head. 

''You  no  wait  tomolla,"  said  he,  "You  go  tonight. 
You  go  click." 

"We  can't  go  too  quickly  to  suit  me/'  I  said.  "It  is  for 
Miss  Desire  to  decide." 

"Me  tell  Missy,"  he  said  and  hurried  away. 

Somehow,  Li  Ho  always  knows  where  to  find  Desire. 
She  vanishes  from  my  ken  often,  but  never  from  his. 
He  must  have  found  her  quickly  this  time  for  she  came 
at  once.    She  looked  troubled. 

"Li  Ho  says  we  had  better  go  tonight,"  she  said. 

"Can  you  be  ready?" 

"Yes.  It  isn't  that.  It's  just  that  it  would  seem  more — 
more  sensible  by  daylight.  But  Li  Ho  says  you  have 
told  father,  and  that  father  was — upset.  He  said  some- 
thing about  tonight  being  the  full  moon.  But  I  can't 
see  why  that  should  matter.     Do  you?" 

"Only  that  it  will  be  easy  to  cross  the  Inlet." 

"It  can't  be  that.  Li  Ho  can  take  the  'Tillicum'  over 
on  the  darkest  night.  It  has  something  to  do  with  father. 
He  seems  to  think  that  the  full  moon  affects  him.  And 
it's  true  that  he  often  goes  off  on  the  mountain  about 
that  time.    But  I  can't  see  why  that  should  hurry  us." 

I  did  not  see  it  either.  And  yet  I  felt  that  I  should 
like  to  hurry. 

"We  certainly  will  not  go  unless  you  wish,"  I  began. 
But  Li  Ho  interrupted  me  in  his  colorless  way. 

"Allee  same  go  this  eveling,"  he  said  blandly.  "No 
take  'Tillicum'  tomolla.  Velly  busy  tcmolla.  Velly  busy 
next  day.    Velly  busy  all  week." 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


"Look  here,"  I  said,  "you'll  do  exactly  what  your 
mistress  tells  you." 

His  celestial  impudence  was  making  me  hot.  But 
Desire  stopped  me.  ''It's  no  use,"  she  explained.  "I  have 
really  no  authority.  And  he  means  what  he  says.  We 
must  go  tonight  or  wait  indefinitely." 

I  was  eager  to  be  gone.  But  it  went  against  the  grain 
to  be  hustled  off  by  a  Chinaman.  Perhaps  my  face 
showed  as  much,  for  Desire  went  on.  "You  needn't 
feel  like  that  about  it.  He  doesn't  intend  to  be  impudent. 
He  probably  thinks  he  has  a  very  real  reason  for  getting 
us  away.  And  Li  Ho's  reasons  are  liable  to  be  good  ones. 
We  had  better  go." 

The  rest  of  the  day  was  uneventful,  save  for  the 
incident  of  Sami.  I  think  I  told  you  about  Sami,  didn't 
I  ?  A  kind  of  brown  familiar  who  follows  Desire  about. 
He  is  a  baby  Indian  as  much  a  part  of  the  mountain  as  the 
leaping  squirrels  and  not  nearly  so  tame.  He  is  the  one 
thing  here  that  I  think  Desire  is  sorry  to  leave.  And  for 
this  reason  I  hoped  he  wouldn't  appear  before  we  were 
gone.  I  had  done  all  my  packing — easy  enough  since  I 
had  scarcely  unpacked — and  I  could  hear  Desire  moving 
about  doing  hers.  The  place  seemed  particularly  peace- 
ful. I  could  have  felt  almost  sorry  to  leave  my  cool, 
bare  room  with  its  tree-stump  for  a  table  and  all  the 
forest  just  outside.  But  as  I  sat  there  by  the  window 
there  came  upon  me,  for  the  second  time  that  day,  a 
mounting  hurry  to  be  gone.  There  was  nothing  to  ac- 
count for  it,  but  I  distinctly  felt  an  inward  "Hurry! 
Hurry!"  So  propelling  was  it  that  only  the  knowledge 
that  the  "Tillicum"  would  not  float  until  high  tide  kept  me 
from  finding  Desire  and  begging  her  to  come  away  at 
once.  I  did  go  so  far  as  to  wander  restlessly  down  into 
the  garden  where  she  had  gone  to  feed  the  chickens.  Per- 
haps I  would  have  gone  farther  and  mentioned  my  mis- 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  93 

givings  but  just  then  Sami  came  and  I  forgot  all  about 
them.  I  don't  believe  I  have  ever  seen  any  child  so 
frightened  as  that  little  Indian!  He  simply  fell  through 
the  bushes  behind  the  chicken  house  and  shot,  like  a 
small,  brown  catapult,  into  Desire's  arms.  His  round 
face  was  actually  grey  with  fear.  And  he  huddled  in 
her  big  apron  shivering,  for  all  the  world  like  some  terri- 
fied animal. 

Naturally  the  first  thing  to  do  was  to  get  the  thing 
that  had  frightened  him.  An  axe  seemed  a  hkely 
weapon,  so,  picking  it  up,  I  slid  into  the  bushes  at  the 
point  where  Sami  had  come  out  of  them. 

Perfect  serenity  was  there!  The  afternoon  light  lay 
golden  on  the  moss  above  the  fallen  trees.  No  hidden 
scurrying  in  the  underbrush  told  of  wild,  wood  things 
hastening  to  safety  from  some  half-sensed  danger.  No 
broken  branches  or  trampled  earth  told  of  any  past  or 
present  struggle.  There  was  no  trace  of  any  fearsome 
creature  having  passed  along  that  peaceful  trail. 

I  searched  thoroughly  and  found  nothing.  On  my 
way  back  to  the  clearing  I  met  Li  Ho. 

"Tind  anything,  Li  Ho?"  I  asked  eagerly. 

The  Celestial  grinned. 

"Find  honorable  self,"  said  he.  **Missy  she  send. 
Missy  heap  scared  along  of  you." 

"Nonsense!"  I  said.  *T  can  take  care  of  myself. 
Even  if  it  had  been  a  bear,  I  had  an  axe." 

"Bear !"  said  Li  Ho.  And  then  he  laughed.  Did  you 
ever  hear  a  Chinaman  laugh?  I  never  had.  Not  this 
Chinaman  anyway.  It  was  so  startling  that  I  forgot 
what  I  was  saying.  Next  moment  I  could  have  sworn 
that  he  had  not  laughed  at  all. 

We  found  Sami,  much  comforted,  sitting  upon  Desire's 
lap,  a  thing  he  could  seldom  be  induced  to  do.  At  our 
entrance  he  began  to  shiver  again  but  soon  quieted.  Desire 


94  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

had  tried  questioning  but  it  was  of  no  use.  He  either 
couldn't,  or  wouldn't,  say  anything  about  what  had 
frio-htened  him.  Desire  was  inclined  to  think  that  he 
did  not  know.  But  I  was  not  so  sure.  It's  a  fairly  well 
established  fact  that  children  simply  cant  speak  of 
certain  terrors.  And  the  more  frightened  they  are  the 
more  powerful  is  the  inhibition.  In  any  case  it  was 
useless  to  question  Sami  so  we  fed  him  instead  and 
presently  he  went  to  sleep. 

I  suppose  we  all  forgot  him.  I  know  I  did.  One 
doesn't  elope  every  day.  And  it  was  never  Sami's  way 
to  insist  upon  his  presence  as  ordinary  children  do.  Li 
Ho  departed  to  tinker  with  the  "Tillicum"  and  after- 
wards returned  to  give  us  a  late  supper.  Desire  kept 
out  of  my  way.  One  might  almost  have  thought  that  she 
was  shy — if  so,  a  most  perplexing  development.  For 
why  should  she  feel  shy?  It  wasn't  as  if  we  had  not  put 
the  whole  affair  on  a  perfectly  business  basis.  Perhaps 
there  is  some  elemental  magic  in  names,  so  that,  to  a 
woman,  the  very  word  "marriage"  has  power  to  provoke 
certain  nervous  reactions? 

However  that  may  be,  even  Desire  forgot  Sami.  We 
left  the  house  just  as  the  clearing  began  to  grow  brighter 
with  light  from  the  still  hidden  moon,  and  we  were  half- 
way down  to  the  boat  landing  before  anyone  thought  of 
him.    Oddly  enough  it  was  I  who  remembered. 

"Sami!"  I  exclaimed,  with  a  little  throb  of  nameless 
fear.     "We  have  forgotten  Sami." 

Desire,  I  thought,  looked  surprised  and  somewhat 
vexed  at  her  oversight.  But  displayed  no  trace  of  the 
consternation  which  had  suddenly  fallen  on  me. 

"He  is  all  right,"  she  said.  "He  will  sleep  till  morning 
unless  his  mother  comes  for  him." 

"Where  you  leave  um?"  asked  Li  Ho  briefly.  He  had 
already  set  down  the  bag  he  was  carrying. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  95 

"In  my  own  bed." 

*'Me  go  get!"  said  Li  Ho. 

But  I  had  not  waited.  I  had  started  to  "go  get"  my- 
self. The  sense  of  breathless  hurry  was  on  me  again. 
I  did  not  pause  to  argue  that  the  child  was  perfectly  safe. 
I  forgot  that  I  had  ever  been  lame.  Perhaps  that  sciatic 
nerve  is  only  mortal  mind  anyway.  When  I  came  out 
into  the  clearing  the  cottage  was  turning  silver  in  the 
first  rays  of  the  full  moon.  Very  peaceful  and  secure  it 
looked.     And  yet  I  hurried ! 

I  made  no  noise.  To  myself  I  explained  this  by  a  de- 
sire not  to  waken  the  youngster.  No  use  frightening 
him.  I  stole,  as  quietly  as  one  of  his  own  ancestors,  to 
the  foot  of  the  stairs.  The  door  of  Desire's  room  was 
open.  I  could  see  a  moonlit  bar  across  the  dark 
landing. . .  . 

I  think  I  went  straight  up  that  stair.  I  hope  so.  You 
know  that  one  of  my  worst  nervous  troubles  has  been  a 
dread  that  I  might  fail  in  some  emergency?  I  dread  a 
sort  of  nerve  paralysis.  .  .  .  But  I  got  up  the  stair.  The 
fear  that  seemed  to  push  me  back  wasn't  personal,  or 
physical — one  might  call  it  psychic  fear,  only  that  the 
word  explains  nothing.  ...  I  looked  in  at  the  open  door. 
There  seemed  to  be  nothing  there  but  the  moonlight. 
The  room  must  have  been  almost  as  bare  as  my  own. 
But  over  on  the  far  side,  l^eyond  the  zone  of  the  window, 
was  the  dim  whiteness  of  a  bed.  I  could  see  nothing 
clearly — but  the  Fear  was  there.  I  dragged,  actually 
dragged,  my  feet  across  the  floor — my  sight  growing 
clearer,  until  at  last — I  saw ! 

I  think  I  shouted,  but  it  was  so  like  a  nightmare  that 
I  may  not  have  made  a  sound.  .  .  .  The  dragging  weight 
must  have  left  my  feet  as  I  sprang  forward  .  .  .  but  it 
is  all  confused!  And  the  whole  thing  lasted  only  a 
minute. 


96  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

In  that  minute  I  had  seen  what  I  would  have  sworn 
was  not  human.  Even  while  I  knew  It  for  the  little  old 
man  with  the  umbrella,  I  had  no  sense  of  its  humanness. 
Something  bent  above  the  bed — the  old  man's  face  was 
there,  the  thin  figure,  the  white  hair,  and  yet  it  seemed 
the  wildest  absurdity  to  call  the  Fury  who  wore  them 
by  any  human  name. 

The  eyes  looked  at  me — eyes  without  depth  or  mean- 
ing— eyes  like  bits  of  blue  steel  reflecting  the  light  of 
Tophet — ,  incarnate  evil,  blazing,  peering  ...  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  long,  thin  hands,  like  claws,  around  the 
folded  umbrella,  a  flash  of  something  bright  at  the  ferrule 
.  .  .  and  then  the  picture  dissolved  like  an  image  passing 
from  a  dimly  lighted  screen.  Before  I  could  skirt  the 
bed,  whatever  had  been  upon  the  other  side  of  it  had 
melted  into  the  darkness  beyond  the  moon.  I  bent  over 
the  bed.  Sami  was  there — Sami,  rolled  shapelessly  in  the 
concealing  bedclothes,  his  round  face  hidden  in  the  pillow, 
his  black  hair  just  a  blot  of  darkness  on  the  white.  . . . 
It  might  have  been  Desire  lying  there ! .  .  . . 

I  found  the  door  through  which  the  Thing  had  slipped. 
But  it  was  useless  to  try  to  follow.  There  was  no  one 
in  the  house  nor  in  the  moonlit  clearing.  And  Desire 
and  Li  Ho  were  waiting  on  the  trail.  I  picked  up  the  still 
sleeping  child  and  blundered  down  to  them. 

It  seemed  incredible  to  hear  Desire's  laugh. 

''Good  gracious !"  she  said.  ''You're  carrying  him  up- 
side down." 

She  had  had  no  hint  of  danger.  But  with  Li  Ho  it 
was  different.  He  fell  back  beside  me  when  Desire  had 
relieved  me  of  the  child.  I  could  feel  his  inscrutable 
eyes  upon  my  face. 

"You  see  um,"  said  Li  Ho.  It  was  an  assertion,  not 
a  question. 

I  nodded. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  97 


''No  be  scare,"  muttered  he.  ''Missy  all  safe.  Every- 
thing all  safe  now.  Li  Ho  go  catch  um.  Li  Ho  catch 
um  good.    All  light — tomolla." 

''You  mean  you  can  manage  him  and  he'll  be  all  right 
tomorrow?"    I  said.     "But — what  is  it T 

The  Celestial  shrugged. 

"Muchy  devil  maybe.  Muchy  moon-devil,  plaps. 
Velly  bad." 

"There's  a  knife  in  that  umbrella,  Li  Ho." 

But  though  his  eyes  looked  blandly  into  mine,  I 
couldn't  tell  whether  this  was  news  to  Li  Ho  or  not .... 

Well,  that's  the  story.  Lve  written  it  down  while  it's 
fresh,  sparing  comment.  Desire  sang  as  we  crossed  the 
Inlet ;  litde,  low  snatches  of  song  with  a  hint  of  freedom 
in  them.  She  had  made  her  choice  and  it  is  never  her 
way  to  look  back.  The  old  "Tillicum"  rattled  and 
chugged  and  the  damp  crept  in  around  our  feet.  But  the 
water  was  a  path  of  gold  and  the  sky  a  bowl  of  silver — 
and  as  an  example  of  present  day  elopements  it  had 
certainly  been  fairly  exciting. 

Yours,  Benis. 


XIII 

DESIRE  Spence  bent  earnestly  over  the  writing  pad 
which  lay  open  upon  her  knee. 

''Mrs.  Benis  Hamilton  Spence"  she  wrote.    And  then : 

''Mrs.  B.  Hamilton  Spence." 

And  then : 

"Mrs.  Benis  H.  Spence.'' 

Over  this  last  she  sucked  her  pencil  thoughtfully. 

''One  more!"  prompted  her  husband  encouragingly. 
''Don't  decide  before  you  inspect  our  full  line  of  goods." 

"Initials,  only,  lack  character,"  objected  Desire. 
'There  is  nothing  distinctive  about  'Mrs.  B.  H.  Spence'. 
It  doesn't  balance  well,  either.  I  think  I'll  decide  upon 
the  'Benis  H.'  I  like  it — although  I  have  never  heard 
of  'Benis'  as  a  name  before." 

"You  are  not  supposed  to  have  heard  of  it,"  explained 
its  owner  complacently.  "It  is  a  very  exclusive  name, 
a  family  name.  My  mother's  paternal  grandmother  was 
a  Benis." 

Desire  was  not  attending.  "Your  nickname,  too,  is 
odd,"  she  mused.  "How  on  earth  could  anyone  make 
'Beans'  out  of  'Benis  Hamilton?'  " 

"Very  easily — but  how  did  you  know  that  anyone 
had?" 

"Oh,  from  a  touching  inscription  on  one  of  your 
books,  'To  Beans — from  Bones/  " 

"Well — there's  a  whole  history  in  that.  It  happened 
by  a  well  defined  process  of  evolution.  When  I  went  to 
school  I  had  to  have  a  name.  A  school  boy's  proper 
name  is  no  good  to  him.  Proper  names  are  simply  not 
done.     But  the  christening  party  found  my  combination 

98 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  99 

rather  a  handful.  No  one  could  do  anything  with  Benis 
and  the  obvious  shortening  of  Hamilton  was  considered 
too  Biblical.  'Ham',  however,  suggested  Tiggy'.  This 
might  have  done  had  there  not  already  existed  a  Tiggy' 
with  a  prior  right.  'Piggy'  suggested  Tork',  but  Tork' 
isn't  a  name.  Tork'  suggested  'Beans'.  And  once  more 
behold  the  survival  of  the  fittest." 

Desire  laughed. 

The  professor  listened  to  her  laugh  with  a  strained 
expression  which  relaxed  when  no  words  followed  it. 

'T  was  afraid,"  he  admitted  penitently,  ''that  you 
might  want  to  know  why  'Pork'  is  not  as  much  a  name 
as  'Beans'." 

"But— it  isn't." 

"Quite  so.  Only  you  are  the  first  member  of  your  de- 
lightful sex  who  has  ever  perceived  it.  You  are  a  per- 
ceptive person,  Mrs.  Spence." 

It  was  the  fourth  day  of  their  Business  Honeymoon. 
Four  days  ago  they  had  landed  from  the  cheerful  little 
coast  steamer  whose  chattering  load  of  summer  campers 
they  had  left  behind  on  the  route.  For  four  sun-bright 
days  and  dew-sweet  nights  they  had  found  themselves 
sole  possessors  of  a  bay  so  lovely  that  it  seemed  to  have 
emerged  bodily  from  a  green  and  opal  dream. 

"  'Friendly  Bay,'  they  calls  it,"  a  genial  deckhand  told 
them,  grinning.  "But  you  folks  will  be  the  only  friends 
anywheres  about.  There's  a  sort  of  farm  across  the 
point,  though,  and  maybe  you  could  hit  the  trail  by  climb- 
ing, if  you  get  too  fed  up  with  the  scenery." 

"Oh,  we  shan't  want  any  company,"  said  the  new  Mrs. 
Spence  innocently — a  remark  so  disappointing  in  its  un- 
embarrassed frankness  that  the  deck-hand  lost  interest 
and  decided  that  they  were  "just  relations"  after  all. 

They  had  carried  their  camp  with  them,  and,  from 
where  they  now  sat,  they  could  see  its  canvas  gleaming 


100  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

ivory  white  against  its  background  of  green.  Desire's 
eyes,  as  she  raised  them  from  her  name-building,  Hngered 
upon  it  proudly.  It  was  such  a  wonderful  camp! — her 
first  experience  of  what  money,  unconsidered  save  as  a 
purchasing  agent,  can  do.  Even  her  personal  outfit  was 
something  of  a  revelation.  How  deliciously  keen  and 
new  was  this  consciousness  of  clothes — the  smart  high- 
laced  boots,  the  soft,  sand-colored  coat  and  skirt,  the 
knickers  which  felt  so  easy  and  so  trim,  the  cool,  silk 
shirt  with  its  wide  collar,  the  dainty,  intimate  things  be- 
neath !  She  would  have  been  less  than  woman,  had  the 
possession  of  these  things  failed  to  meet  some  need, — 
some  instinct,  deep  within,  which  her  old,  bare  life  had 
daily  mortified. 

And  it  had  all  been  so  easy,  so  natural!  How  could 
she  ever  have  hesitated  to  make  the  change?  Even  her 
pride  was  left  to  her,  intact.  He,  her  friend,  had  given 
and  she  had  taken,  but  in  this  there  had  been  no  spoiling 
sense  of  obligation,  for,  presently,  she  too  was  to  give 
and  to  give  unstintedly:  new  strength  and  skill  seemed 
already  tingling  in  her  firm,  quick  hands ;  new  vigor  and 
inspiration  stirred  in  her  eager  brain — and  both  hands 
and  brain  were  to  be  her  share  of  giving — her  partner- 
ship offering  in  this  pact  of  theirs.  She  was  eager,  eager 
to  begin. 

But  already  they  had  been  four  days  in  camp  with- 
out a  beginning.  So  far  they  had  not  even  looked  for  the 
trail  which  was  to  lead  them  to  the  cabin  of  Hawk-Eye 
Charlie  whose  store  of  Indian  lore  had  been  the  reason 
for  their  upcoast  journey.  This  delay  of  the  expedi- 
tionary party  was  due  to  no  fault  of  its  secretary. 
During  the  past  four  days  she  had  proposed  the  search 
for  the  trail  four  times,  one  proposal  per  day.  And  each 
day  the  chief  expeditioner  had  voted  a  postponement. 
The  chief  expeditioner  was  lazy.     At  least  that  was  the 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  loi 


excuse  he  made.  And  Desire,  who  was  not  lazy,  might 
have  fretted  at  the  inaction  had  she  beheved  him.  But 
she  knew  it  was  not  laziness  which  had  drawn  certain 
new  lines  about  the  expeditioner's  mouth  and  deepened 
the  old  ones  on  his  forehead.  It  was  not  laziness  which 
lay  behind  the  strained  look  in  his  eyes  and  the  sudden 
return  of  his  almost  vanished  limp.  These  things  are 
not  symptoms  of  indolence.  They  are  symptoms  of 
nerves.  And  Desire  knew  something  of  nerves.  What 
she  did  not  know,  in  the  present  case,  was  their  exciting 
cause.  Neither  could  she  understand  this  new  reticence 
on  the  part  of  their  victim  nor  his  reluctance  to  admit 
the  obvious.  She  puzzled  much  about  these  problems 
while  the  lazy  one  rested  in  the  sun  and  the  quiet,  golden 
days  wrought  the  magic  of  their  cure. 

And  Spence,  mere  man  that  he  was,  fancied  that  she 
noticed  nothing.  The  pleasant  illusion  hastened  his  re- 
covery. It  tended  to  restore  a  complacency,  rudely 
disturbed  by  an  enforced  realization  of  his  own  back- 
sliding. He  had  been  quite  furious  upon  discovering 
that  the  ''little  episode"  of  the  moonlit  cottage  had 
filched  from  him  all  his  new  won  strength  and  nervous 
stamina,  leaving  him  sleepless  and  unstrung,  ready  to 
jump  at  the  rattling  of  a  stone.  More  and  more,  there 
grew  in  him  a  fierce  disdain  of  weakness  and  a  cold  de- 
termination to  beat  Nature  at  her  own  game.  Let  him 
once  again  be  "fit"  and  wily  indeed  would  be  the  trick 
which  would  steal  his  fitness  from  him. 

Meanwhile,  laziness  was  as  good  a  camouflage  as  any- 
thing and  lying  on  the  grass  while  Desire  chose  her 
name  was  pleasant  in  the  extreme. 

'"Names,"  murmured  the  lazy  one  dreamily,  ''are 
things.  When  a  thing  is  'named  true'  its  name  and  itself 
become  inseparable  and  identical.    That  is  why  all  magic 


102  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

is  wrought  by  names.  It  becomes  simply  a  matter  of 
knowing  the  right  ones." 

''Is  that  a  very  new  idea,  or  a  very  old  one?" 

"All  ideas  are  ageless,  so  it  must  be  both." 

"I  wonder  how  they  named  things  in  the  very,  very 
first?"  mused  Desire.  "Did  they  just  sit  in  the  sun,  as 
we  are  sitting,  and  think  and  think,  until  suddenly — they 
knew?" 

"Very  likely.  There  is  a  legend  that,  in  the  beginning, 
everything  was  named  true — fire,  water,  earth,  air — so 
that  the  souls  of  everything  knew^  their  names  and  were 
ruled  by  those  who  could  speak  them.  But,  as  the  race 
grew  less  simple  and  more  corrupt,  the  true  names  were 
obscured  and  then  lost  altogether.  Only  once  or  twice 
in  all  the  ages  has  come  some  master  who  has  known 
their  secret — such,  perhaps,  as  He  who  could  speak 
peace  to  the  wind  and  walk  upon  the  sea  and  change  the 
water  into  wine." 

Desire  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  said.  "It  feels  like  that — 
as  if  one  had  forgotten.  Sometimes  when  I  have  been 
in  the  woods  alone  or  drifting  far  out  on  the  water,  where 
there  was  no  sound  but  its  own  voice,  it  has  seemed  as  if 
I  had  only  to  think — hard — hard — in  order  to  remember ! 
Only  one  never  does." 

"But  one  may — there  is  always  the  chance.  I  fancied 
I  was  near  it  once — in  a  shell  hole.  The  stars  were  big 
and  close  and  the  earth  seemed  light  and  ready  to  float 
away.  I  almost  had  it  then — my  lips  were  just  moving 
upon  some  mighty  word — but  someone  came.  They 
found  me  and  carried  me  in  ...  I  say,  the  sun  is  climb- 
ing up,  let's  follow  it." 

Hand  in  hand  they  followed  the  line  of  the  sinking 
5un  up  the  slippery  slope.  They  both  knew  where  they 
were  going,  for  every  evening  of  their  stay  they  had 
wandered  there  to  sit  awhile  in  the  little  deserted  Indian 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  103 

burying-ground  which  lay,  white  fenced  and  peaceful, 
facing  the  flaming  west.  When  they  had  found  it  first 
it  had  seemed  to  give  the  last  touch  of  beauty  to  that 
beautiful  place. 

"It  is  so  different'*  said  Desire,  searching  carefully, 
as  was  her  way,  for  the  proper  word.  *'It  is  so — so 
beautifully  dead.  It  ought  to  be  like  that,"  she  went  on 
thoughtfully.  "I  never  realized  before  why  our  ceme- 
teries are  so  sad — it  is  because  we  will  not  let  them  really 
die — we  dress  them  up  with  flowers — a  kind  of  ghastly 
life  in  death.     But  this " 

They  looked  around  them  at  the  little  white-fenced 
spot  with  its  great  centre  cross,  grey  and  weather-beaten, 
and  all  its  smaller  crosses  clustering  round.  There  was 
warmth  here,  the  warmth  of  sun  upon  a  western  slope. 
There  was  life,  too,  the  natural  life  of  grass  and  vine,  the 
cheerful  noise  of  birds  and  squirrels  and  bees.  And,  for 
color,  there  were  harmonies  in  all  the  browns  and  greens 
and  yellows  of  the  rocky  soil. 

"Let  us  sit  here.  They  won't  mind.  They  are  all 
sleeping  so  happily,"  Desire  had  declared.  "And  the 
crosses  make  it  seem  like  one  large  family — see  how 
that  wild  rose  vine  has  spread  itself  over  a  whole  group 
of  graves!    It  is  so  friendly." 

Spence  had  fallen  in  with  her  humor,  and  had  come 
indeed  to  love  this  place  where  even  the  sun  paused 
lingeringly  before  the  mountains  swallowed  it  up. 

This  afternoon  he  flung  himself  down  beside  their 
favorite  rose-vine  with  the  comfortable  sense  of  well- 
being  which  comes  with  returning  health.  Even  more 
than  Desire,  he  wondered  that  he  had  ever  hesitated  be- 
fore an  arrangement  so  eminently  satisfying.  If  ever 
events  had  justified  an  impulse,  his  impulse,  he  felt,  had 
been  justified.  He  stole  a  glance  at  Desire  as  she  sat  in 
pleasant  silence  gazing  into  the  sunset.     She  was  happier 


104  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

already,  and  younger.  Something  of  that  hard  maturity 
was  fading  from  her  eyes — the  tiny  dented  corners  of 
her  lips  were  softer.  .  .  .  Oh,  undoubtedly  he  had  done 
the  right  thing!  And  everything  had  run  so  smoothly. 
There  had  been  no  trouble.  No  unlooked  for  Nemesis  had 
dogged  his  steps  even  in  the  matter  of  that  small  strategy 
concerning  his  unhappy  past.  He  had  been  unduly 
worried  about  that,  owing  probably  to  early  copy-book 
aphorisms.  Honesty  is  the  best  policy.  Yes,  but — 
nothing  had  happened.  Mary,  bless  her,  was  already 
only  a  memory.  She  had  played  her  part  and  slipped 
back  into  the  void  from  whence  she  came.  He  could 
forget  her  very  name  with  impunity.  A  faint  smile 
testified  to  a  conscience  lulled  to  warm  security. 

But  security  is  a  dangerous  thing.  It  tempts  the  fates. 
Even  while  our  strategist  smiled,  the  girl  who  sat  so 
silently  beside  him  was  wondering  about  that  smile — and 
other  things.  He  was  much  better,  she  reflected,  if  he 
could  find  his  passing  thoughts  amusing.  Amusement 
at  one's  own  fancies  is  a  healthy  sign.  And  today  she 
had  noticed,  also,  that  his  laziness  was  almost  natural. 
Perhaps  it  might  be  safe  now  to  say  what  she  had  made 
up  her  mind  should  be  said.  But  not  too  abruptly.  When 
next  she  spoke  it  was  merely  to  continue  their  previous 
discussion. 

''Do  you  think  people  may  have  'true'  names,  too?" 
she  asked  presently.  "J^st  ordinary  people,  like  you  and 
me?" 

Spence  nodded.  "Always  noting,"  he  added,  "that 
you  and  I  are  not  ordinary  people." 

"Then  if  anyone  knew  another's  true  name,  and  used 
it,  the  other  could  not  help  responding?" 

"Um-m.     I  suppose  not." 

"Perhaps  that  is  what  love  is,"  said  Desire. 

Even  then  no  presentiment  of  coming  trouble  stirred 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  105 

beneath  Spence's  dangerous  serenity.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  the  air  had  made  him  comfortably  drowsy.  He 
merely  nodded,  deftly  swallowing  a  yawn.  Desire 
went  on: 

**Then  love  is  only  complete  understanding?" 

"Always  thought  it  might  be  some  trifle  like  that," 
murmured  the  drowsy  one.  "But  don't  ask  me.  How 
should  I  know?  That  is,"  rousing  hastily,  "I  do  know, 
of  course.  And  it  is.  There's  a  squirrel  eating  your 
hat." 

Desire  changed  the  position  of  the  hat.  But  the  sub- 
ject remained  and  she  resumed  it  dreamily. 

"Then  in  order  that  it  might  be  quite  complete,  the 
understanding  would  have  to  be  mutual.  If  only  one 
loved,  there  would  always  be  a  lack." 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it!"  said  Spence  firmly. 

"Well,  then — don't  you  see?" 

"See?  See  what?  That  squirrel's  eating  your  hat 
again." 

"Go  away!"  said  Desire  to  the  squirrel.  And,  when 
it  had  gone,  ''Don't  you  see?"  she  repeatedly  gravely. 

The  professor  always  loved  her  gravity.  And  he 
had  not  seen.  He  was,  in  fact,  almost  asleep.  "You 
tell  me,"  he  said,  rushing  upon  destruction. 

Then  Desire  said  what  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
say.  He  never  knew  exactly  what  it  was  because  before 
she  actually  said  the  word  "Mary,"  he  was  too  sleepy, 
and  afterwards  he  was  too  dazed. 

Mary!  The  word  went  through  him  like  an  electric 
shock.  It  tingled  to  his  criminal  toes.  It  whirled 
through  his  cringing  brain  like  a  pinwheel  suddenly 
lighted.  It  exploded  like  a  bomb  in  the  recesses  of  his 
false  content. 

Desire  was  talking  about  Mary!  Talking  about  her 
in  that   frank   and   unembarrassed  way  which  he  had 


ic6  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


always  admired.  But  good  heavens!  didn't  she  reahze 
that  Mary  was  dead  and  buried?  No.  She  evidently 
did  not.  Far  from  it.  When  he  w^as  able  to  listen  in- 
telligently once  more,  Desire  was  saying: 

".  .  .  and,  to  a  man  like  you,  philosophy  should  be  such 
a  help.  I  feel  you  will  be  far, 'far  less  unhappy  if  you 
do  not  shut  yourself  up  with  your  memories.  Do  you 
suppose  I  have  not  noticed  how  nervous  and  worn  out 
you  have  been  since  the  night  w^e  came  away?  Why 
have  you  tried  to  hide  it?" 

"I  haven't " 

*'Yes  you  have.  Please,  please  don't  quibble.  And 
hidden  things  are  so  dangerous.  It  isn't  as  if  I  would 
not  understand.  You  ought  to  give  me  credit  for  a  little 
knowledge  of  human  nature.  I  knew  perfectly  well  that 
when  you  married  me — you  would  think  of  Mary.  You 
could  hardly  help  it." 

The  professor  sat  up.  He  was  not  at  all  sleepy  now. 
Mary  had  ''murdered  sleep."     But  he  was  still  dazed. 

'Wait  a  moment."  He  raised  a  restraining  hand. 
"Let  me  get  this  right.  You  say  you  have  noticed  a 
certain  lack  of  energy  in  my  manner  of  late?" 

"Anyone  must  have  noticed  it." 

"But  I  explained  it,  didn't  I  ?" 

"Yes  ?"  The  slight  smile  on  Desire's  lips  was  sufficient 
comment  on  the  explanation.  The  professor  began  to 
feel  injured. 

"Then  I  gather,  further,  that  you  do  not  accept  the 
explanation?" 

"Don't  be  cross!  How  could  I?  I  have  eyes.  And 
my  point  is  simply  that  there  is  no  need  for  any  con- 
cealment between  us.  You  promised  that  we  should  be 
friends.    Friends  help  friends  when  they  are  in  trouble." 

The  professor  rumpled  his  hair.  The  pinwheel  in  his 
brain  was  slowing  down.     Already  the  man^elous  some- 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  107 

thing  which  accepts  and  adjusts  the  unexpected  was  hard 
at  work  restoring  order.  Mary  was  not  dead.  He  had 
to  reckon  with  Mary.  Very  well,  let  Mary  look  to  her- 
self. Let  her  beware  how  she  harassed  a  desperate  man ! 
Let  her — but  he  was  not  pushed  to  extremes  yet. 

"I  thought,"  he  said  slowly,  ''that  we  had  tacitly  agreed 
not  to  reopen  this  subject." 

Desire  looked  surprised. 

"And  I  still  think  that  it  would  be  better,  much  better 
to  ignore  it  altogether." 

"Oh,  but  it  wouldn't,"  said  Desire.  "See  how  dread- 
fully dumpy  you  have  been  since  Friday." 

"I  have  not  been  dumpy.  But  supposing  I  have,  there 
may  be  other  reasons.  What  if  I  can  honorably  assure 
you  that  I  have  not  been  thinking  of  the  past  at  all  ?" 

"Then  I  should  want  to  know  what  you  have  been 
thinking  of." 

"But  supposing  I  were  to  go  further  and  say  that  my 
thoughts  are  my  own  property?" 

"That  would  be  horridly  rude,  don't  you  think?  And 
you  are  not  at  all  a  rude  person.  If  you'll  risk  it,  I 
will." 

Her  smile  was  insufferably  secure. 

"You  are  willing  to  risk  a  great  deal,"  snapped  Spence. 
"But  if  it's  truth  you  want " 

He  almost  confessed  then.  The  temptation  to  slay 
Mary  with  a  few  well  chosen  words  almost  overpowered 
him.  But  he  looked  at  the  expectant  face  beside  him  and 
faltered.  Mary  would  not  die  alone.  With  her  would 
die  this  newborn  comradeship.  And  Desire's  smile, 
though  insufferable,  was  sweet.  How  would  it  feel  to 
see  that  bright  look  change  and  pale  to  cold  dislike  ?  Al- 
ready in  imagination  he  shivered  under  the  frozen  anger 
of  that  frank  glance. 

He  could  not  risk  it! 


io8  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


Should  he  then,  ignoring  Mary,  ascribe  his  s}Tnptoms 
to  their  true  cause  ?  By  dragging  out  the  horror  of  that 
moonHt  night,  he  could  account  for  any  vagary  of  nerves. 
But  that  way  of  escape  was  equally  impossible.  He 
could  not  let  that  shadow  fall  across  her  path  of  new- 
found freedom.  Nor  would  he,  in  any  case,  gain  much 
by  such  postponement.  The  wretched  professor  began 
to  realize  that  the  devil  is  indeed  the  father  of  lies  and 
that  he  who  sups  with  him  needs  a  long  spoon. 

Meanwhile,  Desire  was  waiting. 

He  felt  that  he  would  like  to  shake  her — sitting  there 
with  untroubled  air  and  face  like  an  inquiring  sphinx 
^to  shake  her  and  kiss  her  and  tell  her  that  there  wasn't 
any  Mary  and — he  brought  himself  up  with  a  start. 
What  nonsense  was  this! 

''Look  here,"  he  said  irritably,  "you  are  all  wrong. 
You  really  are.  It's  perfectly  true  I've  been  feeling 
groggy.  But  there  doesn't  have  to  be  a  reason  for  that, 
unfortunately.  Old  Bones  warned  me  that  I  might  ex- 
pect all  kinds  of  come-backs.  But  I'm  almost  right  again 
now.  Another  day  or  two  of  this  heavenly  place  and 
I  shan't  know  that  I  have  a  nerve." 

''Yes,"  critically.  ''You  are  better.  I  should  say  that 
the  worst  was  over." 

"I'm  sure  it  is.     Supposing  we  leave  it  at  that." 

Desire  smiled  her  shadowy  smile.  "Very  well.  But 
I  wanted  you  to  know  that  I  understand.  It's  so  silly 
to  go  on  pretending  not  to  see,  when  one  does  see.  And 
it's  only  natural  that  things  should  seem  more  poignant 
for  a  time.  Only  you  will  recover  much  more  quickly  if 
you  adopt  a  sensible  attitude.  I  do  not  say,  'do  not  think 
of  Mary,'  I  say  'think  of  her  openly.'  " 

"How,"  said  Spence,  "does  one  think  openly?" 

"One  talks." 

"You  wish  me  to  talk  of  Mary?" 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  109 

'*It  will  be  so  good  for  you!"  warmly. 

They  looked  for  a  moment  into  each  other's  eyes.  And 
Spence  was  conscious  of  a  second  shock.  Was  there, 
zvas  there  the  faintest  glint  of  something  which  was  not 
all  sympathy  in  those  grey  depths  of  hers?  Before  his 
conscious  mind  had  even  formulated  the  question,  his 
other  mind  had  asked  and  answered  it,  and,  with  the 
lightning  speed  of  the  subconscious,  had  acted.  The 
professor  became  aware  of  a  complete  change  of  outlook. 
His  remorse  and  timidity  left  him.  His  brain  worked 
clearly. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  professor. 

The  worm  had  turned ! 


XIV 

"ji/rORNINGS  are  beautiful  all  over  the  earth  but  Na- 
-^  -*-  ture  keeps  a  special  kind  of  morning  for  early 
summer  use  at  Friendly  Bay.  In  sudden  clearness,  in 
chill  sweetness,  in  almost  awful  purity  there  is  no  other 
morning  like  it.  It  wrings  the  human  soul  quite  clear 
of  everything  save  wonder  at  its  loveliness. 

Desire  never  bathed  until  the  sun  was  up,  not  because 
she  feared  the  dawn-cold  water  but  because  she  would 
not  stir  the  unbroken  beauty  of  its  opal  tide.  With  the 
first  rays  of  the  sun,  the  spell  would  break,  the  waves 
would  dance  again,  the  gulls  would  soar  and  dip,  the 
crabs  would  scuttle  across  the  shining  sand,  the  round 
wet  head  of  a  friendly  seal  w^ould  pop  up  here  and  there 
to  say  good-morning.  Then,  Desire  would  swim — far 
out — so  far  that  Spence,  watching  her,  would  feel  his 
heart  contract.  He  could  not  follow  her — yet.  But  he 
never  begged  her  not  to  take  the  risk,  if  risk  there  were. 
Why  should  she  lose  one  happy  thrill  in  her  own  joyous 
strength  because  he  feared  ?  Better  that  she  should  never 
come  back  from  these  long,  glorious  swims  than  that  he 
should  have  held  her  from  them  by  so  much  as  a  gesture. 

And  she  always  did  come  back,  glowing,  dripping, 
laughing,  her  head  as  sleek  as  a  young  seal's,  salt  upon 
her  lips  and  on  her  wave-whipped  cheek.  Spence,  whose 
swims  were  shorter  and  more  sedate,  would  usually  have 
breakfast  ready. 

But  upon  this  particular  morning  Desire  loitered. 
Though  the  smell  of  bacon  was  in  the  air,  she  sat  pen- 
sively in  the  shallows  of  an  outgoing  tide  and  flung 
shells  at  the  crabs.     She  would  have  told  you  that  she 

no 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  m 

was  thinking.  But  had  she  used  the  word  ''feehng"  she 
would  have  been  nearer  the  truth.  And  the  thing  which 
she  obscurely  felt  was  that  something  had  mysteriously 
altered  for  the  worse  in  a  world  which,  of  late,  had  shown 
remarkable  promise.  It  was  a  small  thing.  She  hardly 
knew  what  it  was.  Merely  a  sense  of  dissonance  some- 
where. 

Whatever  it  was,  it  had  not  been  there  yesterday.  Yes- 
terday morning  she  had  felt  no  desire  to  sit  in  the  shal- 
lows and  throw  shells  at  crabs.  Yesterday  morning  her 
mind  had  been  full  of  that  happy  inconsequence  which 
feels  no  need  of  thought.  Today  was  different.  Men- 
tally she  shook  herself  with  some  irritation.  "What  is 
the  matter  with  you?"  she  asked.  But  the  self  she  ad- 
dressed seemed  oddly  reluctant.  "Come  now,"  said  De- 
sire, hitting  an  especially  big  crab,  "out  with  it !  There's 
no  use  pretending  that  you  don't  know."  Thus  adjured, 
the  self  offered  one  single  and  sulky  word.  The  word 
was  "Mary."     "Oh,  nonsense!"  said  Desire  hastily. 

But  there  it  was.  She  had  forced  the  answer  and  had 
to  make  the  best  of  it.  Her  memory  trailed  back.  Once 
started,  it  had  small  difficulty  in  tracking  her  dissatisfac- 
tion to  its  real  beginning.  Everything,  it  reminded  her, 
had  been  perfect  until  she  and  Benis  had  sat  upon  the 
hill  in  the  sunset  and  talked  about  Mary.  Something 
had  happened  then.  Like  a  certain  ancestress  she  had 
coveted  the  fruit  of  knowledge  and  knowledge  had  been 
given  her.  Not  at  once — Benis  had  at  first  been  distinctly 
reluctant — but  by  gentle  persistence  she  had  won  through 
his  cool  reserve.  Abruptly  and  without  visible  reason, 
his  attitude  had  changed.  He  had  said  in  that  drawl- 
ing voice  of  his,  "You  wish  me  to  talk  about  Mary?" 
And  then,  suddenly,  he  had  talked. 

He  had  told  her  several  things.  The  color  of  Mary's 
hair,   for  instance.     Her  hair  was  yellow.     Benis  had 


112  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


been  insistent  in  pointing  out  that  when  he  said  ''yellow" 
he  did  not  mean  goldish  or  bronze,  or  fawn-colored  or 
tow-colored  or  Titian,  but  just  yellow.  ''Do  you  see  that 
patch  of  sky  over  there  where  the  mountain  dips?"  he 
had  said.     "Mary's  hair  was  yellow,  like  that." 

That  patch  of  sky,  as  Desire  remembered  it,  w^as  very 
beautiful.  Quite  too  beautiful  to  be  compared  to  any- 
one's hair.  No  doubt  it  was  only  in  Benis's  imagination 
that  Mary's  hair  was  anything  like  it. 

But  nevertheless  it  was  there  that  the  world  had  gone 
wrong.  It  was  while  Benis  had  sat  gazing  into  that 
patch  of  amber  sky  that  Desire,  gazing  too,  had,  for  the 
first  time,  realized  the  Other.  Up  until  then,  Mary  had 
been  an  abstraction — thenceforth  she  was  a  personality. 
That  made  all  the  difference.  Desire,  throwing  shells  at 
crabs,  admitted  that,  for  her,  there  had  been  no  Mary 
until  she  had  heard  that  her  hair  was  yellow. 

It  was  ridiculous  but  it  was  true.  Mary  without  hair 
had  been  a  gentle  and  retiring  shade.  A  phantom  in 
whom  it  had  been  possible  to  take  an  academic  interest. 
But  no  shade  has  a  right  to  hair  like  an  amber  sunset. 
Desire  threw  a  shell  viciously.  Very  little  more,  she 
felt,  and  she  would  positively  dislike  Mary ! 

She  jumped  up  and  stamped  in  the  shallow  water. 
The  crabs,  big  and  little,  scuttled  away. 

"Hurr-ee!"  called  the  professor  waving  a  frying-pan. 

"Com-ing!"  Desire's  voice  rose  gaily.  For  the  pres- 
ent, her  small  dissatisfaction  vanished  with  the  crabs. 

"This  coffee  has  been  made  ten  minutes,"  grumbled  the 
getter-of -break fast  with  a  properly  martyred  air.  "What- 
ever were  you  doing?" 

"Thinking." 

"It  isn't  done.    Not  before  breakfast." 

"I  was  thinking,"  fibbed  Desire,  "that  I  have  never 
been  so  spoiled  in  my  life  and  that  it  can't  go  on.     My 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  113 

domestic  conscience  is  beginning  to  murmur.  As  soon  as 
we  are  at  home,  you  will  be  expected  to  stay  in  bed  until 
you  smell  the  coffee  coming  up  the  stairs." 

*'Aunt  Caroline,"  said  the  professor,  "does  not  be- 
lieve in  coffee  for  breakfast,  except  on  Sunday." 

*1  do." 

"Eh?  Oh — I  see.  Well,  I'll  put  my  money  on  you. 
Only  I  hope  you  aren't  really  set  on  making  it  yourself. 
Because  the  cook  would  leave.'" 

"Good  gracious !    Do  we  have  a  cook?'^ 

"We  do.  At  least,  we  did.  Also  a  maid.  But  maids, 
I  understand,  are  greatly  diminished.  There  appear  to 
have  been  tragedies  in  Bainbridge.  Have  you  eaten  suf- 
ficient bacon  to  listen  calmly  to  an  extract  from  Aunt 
Caroline's  last?     Sit  tight,  then 

"  'As  to  what  the  world  is  coming  to  in  the  matter  of 
domestic  service,'  "  writes  Aunt  Caroline,  "  'I  do  not 
know.  I  do  not  wish  to  worry  you,  Benis,  but  as  you  will 
be  marrying  some  day,  in  spite  of  that  silly  doctor  of 
yours  who  insists  that  it's  not  to  be  thought  of,  you  may 
as  well  be  conversant  with  the  situation.  To  put  it  briefly 
— /  have  been  without  competent  help  for  two  weeks. 
You  know,  dear  boy,  that  I  am  easily  satisfied.  I  expect 
very  little  from  anyone.  But  I  think  that  I  am  entitled 
to  prompt  and  willing  service.  That,  at  the  very  least ! 
Yet  I  must  tell  you  that  Mabel,  my  cook,  has  left  me 
most  ungratefully  after  only  three  months'  notice!  She 
is  to  be  married  to  Bob  Summers,  the  plumber.  (Lieu- 
tenant Robert  Summers,  since  the  war,  if  you  please!) 
Well,  she  can  never  say  I  did  not  warn  her.  I  did  not 
mince  matters.  I  told  her  exactly  what  married  life  is, 
and  why  I  have  never  tried  it.  But  the  foolish  girl  is 
beyond  advice.  I  have  had  two  cooks  since  Mabel,  but 
one  insisted  upon  whistling  in  the  kitchen  and  the  other 
served  omelette  made  with  one  ^gg.     My  wants  are  trif- 


114  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 


ling,  as  you  know,  but  one  cannot  abrogate  all  personal 
dignity ' 

''Do  you  get  the  subtle  connection  between  the  one  egg 
and  Aunt  Caroline's  personal  dignity?"  asked  Spence  with 
anxiety.  "Because  if  you  don't,  I'll  never  be  able  to  ask 
you  to  live  in  Bainbridge.  I  may  as  well  confess  now 
that  it  was  only  my  serene  confidence  in  your  sense  of 
humor  which  permitted  me  to  marry  you  at  all.  I  should 
never  have  dared  to  offer  Aunt  Caroline  as  an  'in-law' 
to  anyone  who  couldn't  see  a  joke." 

''You  are  very  fond  of  her  all  the  same,"  said  Desire 
shrewdly.  "And  though  she  expects  very  little  from 
anyone,  she  evidently  adores  you.  She  can't  be  all  funny. 
There  must  be  an  Aunt  Caroline,  deep  down,  that  is 
not  funny  at  all.  I  think  I'm  rather  afraid  of  her.  Only 
you  have  so  often  said  that  she  wished  you  to  get  mar- 
ried  " 

"Excuse  me,  my  dear.  What  I  said  was,  'Aunt  Caro- 
line wished  to  get  me  married.'  The  position  of  the  in- 
finitive is  the  important  thing.  Aunt  Caroline  never 
intended  me  to  do  it  all  by  myself." 

"Oh.  Then,  in  that  case,  she  may  resent  your  having 
done  it." 

"Resent,"  cheerfully,  "is  a  feeble  word.  It  doesn't 
express  Aunt  Caroline  at  all." 

"You  take  it  calmly." 

"Well,  you  see  I've  got  you  to  fight  for  me  now." 

They  looked  at  each  other  over  the  empty  coffee  cups 
and  laughed. 

It  is  easy  to  laugh  on  a  fine  morning.  But  if  they  had 
known  where  Aunt  Caroline  was  at  that  moment — how- 
ever, they  didn't. 

"Once,"  said  Spence  "my  Aunt  read  a  book  upon  Eu- 
genics. I  don't  know  how  it  happened.  It  was  one  of 
those  inexplicable  events  for  which  no  one  can  account. 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  115 

It  made  a  deep  impression.  She  has  studied  me  ever 
since  with  a  view  to  scientific  matrimony.  Alas,  my  poor 
relative!" 

"I  once  read  a  book  upon  Eugenics,  too,"  said  Desire 
with  a  reminiscent  smile.  *'It  seemed  sensible.  Of  course 
I  was  not  j>ersonally  interested  and  that  always  makes  a 
difference.  One  thing  occurred  to  me,  though — it  didn't 
seem  to  give  Nature  credit  for  much  judgment." 

Benis  chuckled.  "No,  it  wouldn't.  Terrible  old  blun- 
derer. Nature !  Always  working  for  the  average.  Never 
seems  to  have  heard  the  word  ^specialize.'  We've  got 
her  there." 

"Then  you  think " 

"Oh  no,"  hastily,  *T  don't.  I  observe  results  with 
interest,  that  is  all." 

Desire  began  to  collect  the  breakfast  dishes.  "That 
was  where  the  book  seemed  weak,"  she  said  thought- 
fully. "It  hadn't  much  to  say  about  results.  It  dealt 
mostly  with  consequences.  They,"  she  added  after  a 
pause,  "were  rather  frightening." 

The  professor  glanced  at  her  sharply.  Had  she  been 
worrying  over  this?  Had  she  connected  it  with  that 
dreadful  old  man  whom  she  called  father?  But  her  face 
was  quite  untroubled  as  she  went  on. 

"I  think  they've  missed  something,  though,"  she  said. 
"There  must  be  something  more  than  the  things  they 
tabulate.  Some  subtle  force  of  life  which  isn't  physical 
at  all.  Something  that  uses  physical  things  as  tools. 
If  its  tools  are  fine,  it  will  do  finer  work,  but  if  its  tools 
are  blunt  it  will  work  with  them  anyway.  And  it  gets 
things  done." 

"By  Jove!"  said  Spence.  This  was  one  of  Desire's 
"windows  with  a  view."  He  was  always  stumbling  upon 
them.     But  he  knew  she  was  shy  of  comment.     "We'll 


ii6  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

tell  Aunt  Caroline  that,"  he  murmured  hopefully.  "It 
may  distract  her  mind."  .  .  . 

That  day  they  found  and  followed  the  trail  to  the 
shack  of  Hawk-Eye  Charlie.  It  proved  to  be  neither  long 
nor  arduous.  The  professor  managed  it  with  ease.  But 
he  w^ould  have  been  quite  unable  to  manage  the  hawk- 
eyed  one  without  the  expert  aid  of  his  secretary.  To  his 
unaccustomed  mind  their  quarry  was  almost  witless  and 
exceedingly  dirty.    But  Desire  knew  her  Indian. 

'Tt  isn't  what  he  is,  but  what  he  knows,"  she  explained. 
"And  he  has  a  retiring  nature." 

So  very  retiring  was  it  that  only  fair  words,  aided  by 
tactful  displays  of  tea  and  tobacco,  could  penetrate  its 
reservations.  Desire  was  quite  unhurried.  But  presently 
she  began  to  extract  bits  of  carefully  hidden  knowledge. 
It  had  to  be  slow  work,  for,  witless  as  he  of  the  hawk-eye 
seemed,  he  was  well  aware  of  the  value  (in  tobacco)  of 
a  wise  conservation.  He  who  babbles  all  he  knows  upon 
first  asking  is  a  fool.  But  he  who  withholds  beyond 
patience  is  a  fool  also.  Was  it  not  so?  Desire  agreed 
that  a  middle  course  is  undoubtedly  the  path  of  wisdom. 
She  added,  carelessly,  that  the  white-man-who-wished- 
stories  was  in  no  hurry.  Neither  had  he  come  seeking 
much  for  little.  Payment  would  be  made  strictly  on 
account  of  value  received.  The  tea  was  good.  And  the 
tobacco  exceptionally  strong,  as  anyone  could  tell  from 
a  distance.  Why  then  should  the  hawk-eyed  one  delay 
his  own  felicity  ? 

This  hastened  matters  considerably  and  the  secretary's 
note-book  was  soon  busy.  Spence  felt  his  oldtime  keen- 
ness revive.  And  Desire  was  happy  for  was  not  this  her 
work  at  last?  It  was  a  profitable  day.  Should  anyone 
care  to  know  its  results,  and  the  results  of  others  like 
it,  they  may  look  up  chapter  six,  section  two,  of  Spence's 
Primitive  Psychology,   unabridged   edition.     Here  they 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  117 

will  find  that  the  fables  of  Hawk-Eye  Charlie,  properly 
classified  and  commented  upon,  have  added  considerably 
to  our  knowledge  of  a  fascinating  subject.  But  far  be 
it  from  us  to  steal  the  professor's  thunder.  We  are  not 
writing  a  book  upon  primitive  psychology.  We  are  in- 
terested only  in  the  sigh  of  pleasurable  satisfaction  with 
which  the  professor's  secretary  closed  her  fat  note-book 
and  called  it  a  day. 

From  that  point  our  interest  leads  us  back  to  camp 
along  the  trail  through  the  warm  June  woods  with  the 
late  sunlight  hanging  like  golden  gauze  behind  the  fretted 
screens  of  green.  We  are  interested  in  sunsets  and  in 
basket  suppers  eaten  in  the  dim  coolness  of  a  miniature 
canyon  through  which  rushed  and  tumbled  an  icy  stream 
from  the  snow  peaks  far  above.  We  are  interested  in  a 
breathless  race  with  a  chattering  squirrel  during  which 
Desire's  hair  came  down — a  bit  of  glorious  autumn  in 
the  deep  green  wood — and  the  tying  of  it  up  again  (a 
lengthy  process)  by  the  professor  with  cleverly  plaited 
stems  of  tender  bracken.  All  these  trifles  interest  us  be- 
cause, to  those  two  who  knew  them,  they  remained  fresh 
and  living  memories  when  the  note-book  and  its  con- 
tents were  buried  in  the  dust  of  yesterday. 

It  was  twilight  when  they  came  out  of  the  wood.  The 
sun  had  gone  and  taken  its  golden  trappings  with  it. 
A  clear,  still  light  was  everywhere  and,  in  the  brilliant 
green  of  the  far  sky,  a  pale  star  shone.  They  watched  it 
brighten  as  the  green  grew  dark.  A  wonderful  purple 
blueness  spread  upon  the  distant  hills. 

Desire  sighed  happily. 

"It  is  the  end  of  the  first  day  of  real  work,"  she  said. 
"The  end  and  the  beginning." 

Her  companion,  usually  like  wax  to  her  moods,  made 
no  answer.  He  did  not  seem  to  hear.  His  gaze  seemed 
drowned  in  that  wonderful  blue.     Desire,  who  had  been 


ii8  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

unaccountably  content,  felt  suddenly  lonely  and  disturbed. 

*'What  is  it?"  she  asked.  Her  voice  had  fallen  from 
its  glad  note.  She  put  out  her  hand,  touching  his  coat 
sleeve  timidly.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  touched 
him  save  in  service.  But  if  her  touch  brought  a  thrill 
there  was  no  sign  of  it.  Her  voice  dropped  still  lower. 
"What  are  you  thinking  of  ?"  she  almost  whispered. 

The  professor  did  not  answer.  Instead  he  turned  to 
her  with  a  sad  smile.     (Very  well  done,  too!) 

Desire  dropped  her  hand  with  a  sharp  exclamation. 
*'0h,"  she  said,  *T  forgot !    You  were  thinking " 

The  professor's  smile  smote  her. 

''Her  eyes  were  blue  Hke  that !"  he  said. 

Desire  tripped  over  a  fallen  branch.  And,  when  she 
recovered  herself,  "Purple,  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 
'T  have  always  thought  purple  eyes  were  a  myth." 

"Now  you  are  making  fun,"  said  the  professor  after 
a  reproachful  pause. 

"How  do  you  mean — making  fun?" 

"  *I  never  saw  a  purple  cow,'  "  quoted  he  patiently. 

"Oh,  I  wasn't !"  cried  Desire  in  distress. 

Spence  begged  her  pardon.  But  he  did  it  abstractedly. 
His  eyes  were  still  upon  the  sky. 

"You'll  fall  over  that  root,"  prophesied  she  grimly. 
"Do  look  where  you  are  going!" 

The  professor  returned  to  earth  with  difficulty. 
"Sorry!"  he  murmured.  "I  doubt  if  I  should  allow 
these  moods  to  bother  you.  But  you  told  me  it  might 
do  me  good  to  talk." 

"Not  all  the  time!"  said  Desire  a  trifle  tartly. 

He  looked  surprised.     "But — "  he  began. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  hungry !"  said  Desire.     "Do  let's  hurry." 

She  hastened  ahead  down  the  slope  towards  the  camp. 
The  tents  lay  in  the  shadow  now  but,  as  they  neared  them, 
a  flickering  light  shot  up  as  if  in  welcome.    Desire  paused. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  119 

"Someone  lighting  a  fire!"  she  exclaimed  in  surprise. 
*'Whocanitbe?" 

Against  the  glow  of  the  new-lit  blaze  a  tall  figure 
lifted  itself  and  a  clear  whistle  cut  the  silence  of  the  Bay. 

Spence's  graceful  melancholy  dropped  from  him  like 
a  forgotten  cloak. 

"Bones!"  he  gasped  in  an  agitated  whisper.  "Oh, 
my  prophetic  soul,  my  doctor!" 

Another  figure  rose  against  the  glow — a  wider  figure 
who  called  shrilly  through  a  clipped  hand. 

"Ben— is !" 

"My  Aunt !"  said  the  professor. 

He  sat  down  suddenly  behind  a  boulder. 


XV 

To  understand  Aunt  Caroline's  arrival  at  Friendly 
Bay  we  should  have  to  understand  Aunt  Caroline, 
and  that,  as  Euclid  says,  is  absurd.  Therefore  we  shall 
have  to  take  the  arrival  for  granted.  The  only  light 
which  she  herself  ever  shed  upon  the  matter  was  a 
statement  that  she  ''had  a  feeling."  And  feelings, 
to  Aunt  Caroline,  were  the  only  reliable  things  in  a 
strictly  unreliable  world.  To  follow  a  feeling  across  a 
continent  was  a  trifle  to  a  determined  character  such  as 
hers.  To  insist  upon  Dr.  Rogers  following  it,  too,  was  a 
matter  of  course. 

*T  shall  need  an  escort,"  said  Aunt  Caroline  to  that 
astonished  physician,  "and  you  will  do  very  nicely.  If 
Benis  is  off  his  head,  as  you  suggest,  it  is  my  plain  duty 
to  look  into  the  matter  and  your  plain  duty,  as  his  medical 
adviser,  to  accompany  me.  I  am  a  woman  who  demands 
little  from  her  fellow  creatures,  knowing  perfectly  well 
that  she  won't  get  it,  but  I  naturally  refuse  to  undertake 
the  undivided  responsibility  of  a  deranged  nephew  gal- 
avanting,  by  your  own  orders,  Doctor,  at  the  ends  of  the 
earth." 

'T  did  not  say  he  was  deranged,"  began  the  doctor 
helplessly,  ''and  you  said  you  didn't  believe  me  anyway." 

"Don't  quote  me  to  excuse  yourself."  Aunt  CaroHne 
sailed  serenely  on.  "At  least  preserve  the  courage  of  your 
convictions.  There  is  certainly  something  the  matter 
with  Benis.  He  has  answered  none  of  my  letters.  He 
has  completely  ignored  my  lettergrams.  To  my  telegram 
of  Thursday  telling  him  that  I  had  been  compelled  to 
discharge  my  third  cook  since  Mabel  for  wiping  dishes 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  121 

on  a  hand  towel,  he  replied  only  by  silence.  And  the 
telegraph  people  say  that  the  message  was  never  de- 
livered owing  to  lack  of  address.  Easy  as  I  am  to  satisfy, 
things  like  this  cannot  be  allowed  to  continue.  My  nephew 
must  be  found." 

"But  we  don't  know  where  to  look  for  him,"  objected 
her  victim  weakly. 

Aunt  Caroline  easily  rose  superior  to  this. 

'We  have  a  map,  I  hope  ?  And  Vancouver,  heathen- 
ish name!  must  be  marked  on  it  somewhere.  If  not, 
the  railroad  people  can  tell  us." 

"But  he  is  not  in  Vancouver." 

"There — or  thereabouts.  When  we  get  there  we  can 
ask  the  policeman,  or,"  with  a  grim  twinkle,  "we  can  en- 
quire at  the  asylums.  You  forget  that  my  nephew  is 
a  celebrated  man  even  if  he  is  a  fool." 

The  doctor  gave  in.  He  hadn't  had  a  chance  from  the 
beginning,  for  Aunt  Caroline  could  answer  objections 
far  faster  than  he  could  make  them.  They  arrived  at  the 
terminus  just  four  days  after  the  expeditionary  party 
had  left  for  Friendly  Bay. 

If  Aunt  Caroline  were  surprised  at  finding  more  than 
one  policeman  in  Vancouver,  she  did  not  admit  it. 
Neither  did  the  general  atmosphere  of  ignorance  as  to 
Benis  daunt  her  in  the  least.  She  adhered  firmly  to 
her  campaign  of  question  asking  and  found  it  fully  justi- 
fied when  inquiry  at  the  post-office  revealed  that  all  let- 
ters for  Professor  Benis  H.  Spence  were  to  be  delivered 
to  the  care  of  the  Union  Steamship  Company.  From 
the  Union  Steamship  Company  to  the  professor's  place 
of  refuge  was  an  easy  step.  But  Dr.  Rogers,  to  whom 
this  last  inquiry  had  been  intrusted,  returned  to  the  hotel 
with  a  careful  jauntiness  of  manner  which  ill  accorded 
with  a  disturbed  mind. 

"Well,  we've  found  him,"  he  announced  cheerfully. 


122  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

"And  now,  if  we  are  wise,  I  think  we'll  leave  him  alone. 
He  is  camping  up  the  coast  at  a  place  called  Friendly 
Bay — no  hotels,  no  accommodation  for  ladies — ^he  is  evi- 
dently perfectly  well  and  attending  to  business.  You 
know  he  came  out  here  partly  to  get  material  for  his  book  ? 
Well,  that's  what  he's  doing.  Must  be,  because  there 
are  only  Indians  up  there." 

"Indians?  What  do  you  mean — Indians?  Wild 
ones?" 

"Fairly  wild." 

Aunt  Caroline  snorted.  She  is  one  of  the  few  ladies 
left  who  possess  this  Victorian  accomplishment.  "And 
you  advise  my  leaving  my  sister's  child  in  his  present  pre- 
carious state  of  mind  alone  among  fairly  wild  Indians?" 

"Well — er — that's  just  it,  you  see.  He  isn't  alone — 
not  exactly." 

"What  do  you  mean — not  exactly?" 

"I  mean  that  his — er — secretary  is  with  him.  He 
has  to  have  a  secretary  on  account  of  never  being  sure 
whether  receive  is  'ie'  or  *ei.'  They  are  quite  all  right, 
though.  The  captain  of  the  boat  says  so.  And  naturally 
on  a  trip  of  that  kind,  research  you  know,  a  man  doesn't 
like  to  be  interrupted." 

Aunt  Caroline  arose.  "When  does  the  next  boat 
leave?"     She  asked  calmly. 

"But — dash  it  all !  We're  not  invited.  We  can't  butt 
in.    I — I  won't  go." 

Aunt  Caroline,  admirable  woman,  knew  when  she  was 
defeated.  She  had  a  formula  for  it,  a  formula  which 
seldom  failed  to  turn  defeat  into  victory.  When  all  else 
failed,  Aunt  Caroline  collapsed.  She  collapsed  now. 
She  had  borne  a  great  deal,  she  had  not  complained,  but 
to  be  told  that  her  presence  would  be  a  "butting  in"  upon 
the  only  living  child  of  her  only  dead  sister  was  more 
than  even  her  fortitude  could  endure !    No,  she  wouldn't 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  123 

take  a  glass  of  water,  water  would  choke  her.  No,  she 
wouldn't  lie  down.  No,  she  wouldn't  lower  her  voice. 
What  did  hotel  people  matter  to  her?  What  did  any- 
thing matter?  She  had  come  to  the  end.  Accustomed 
to  ingratitude  as  she  was,  hardened  to  injustice  and  de- 
sertion, there  were  still  limits 

There  were.  The  doctor  had  reached  his.  Hastily  he 
explained  that  she  had  mistaken  his  meaning.  And,  to 
prove  it,  engaged  passage  at  once,  for  the  next  upcoast 
trip,  on  the  same  little  steamer  which  a  few  days  earlier 
had  carried  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Benis  H.  Spence. 

It  was  a  heavenly  day.  The  mountains  lifted  them- 
selves out  of  veils  of  tinted  mist,  the  islands  lay  like 
jewels — but  Aunt  Caroline,  impervious  to  mere  scenery, 
turned  her  thought  severely  inward. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  to  her  now  subdued  escort,  "that 
we  shall  have  to  pay  the  secretary  a  month's  salary. 
Benis  will  scarcely  wish  to  take  him  back  east  with  us." 

The  doctor  attempted  to  answer  but  seemed  to  have 
some  trouble  with  his  throat. 

"It's  the  damp  air,"  said  Aunt  Caroline.  "Have  a 
troche.  If  Benis  really  needs  a  secretary  I  think  I  can 
arrange  to  get  one  for  him.  Do  you  remember  Mary 
Davis  ?  Her  mother  was  an  Ashton — a  very  good  family. 
But  unfortunate.  The  girls  have  had  to  look  out  for 
themselves  rather.  Mary  took  a  course.  She  could  be 
a  secretary,  I'm  sure.  Benis  could  always  correct  things 
afterward.  And  she  is  not  too  young.  Just  about  the 
right  age,  I  should  think.  They  used  to  know  each  other. 
But  you  know  what  Benis  is.  He  simply  doesn't — your 
cold  is  quite  distressing,  Doctor.    Do  take  a  troche." 

The  doctor  took  one. 

"Of  course  Benis  may  object  to  a  lady  secretary " 

"By  Jove,"  said  Rogers  as  if  struck  with  a  brilHant 
idea.    "Perhaps  his  secretary  is  a  lady !" 


124  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 


*'How  do  you  mean — a  lady!  Don't  be  absurd,  Doc- 
tor. You  said  yourself  there  was  no  proper  hotel.  Benis 
is  discreet.     I'll  say  that  for  him." 

The  doctor's  brilliance  deserted  him.  He  twiddled  his 
thumbs.  But  although  Aunt  Caroline's  repudiation  of 
his  suggestion  had  been  unhesitating  there  was  a  gleam 
of  new  uneasiness  in  her  eye.  She  said  no  more.  It 
was  indeed  quite  half  an  hour  before  she  remarked  ex- 
plosively. 

"Unless  it  were  an  Indian !" 

Her  companion  turned  from  the  scenery  in  pained  sur- 
prise. 

"An  Indian  what?"  he  asked  blankly. 

"An  Indian  secretary — a  female  one." 

"Nonsense.    Indians  aren't  secretaries." 

But  Aunt  Caroline  had  "had  a  feeling."  "It  was  your- 
self who  suggested  that  she  might  be  a  girl,"  she  de- 
clared stubbornly,  "and  if  she  is  a  girl,  she  must  be  an 
Indian.  Indians  are  different — look  at  Pullman  por- 
ters." 

The  doctor  gasped. 

"Even  /  don't  mind  a  Pullman  porter,"  finished  Aunt 
Caroline  grandly. 

"That's  very  nice,"  the  doctor  struggled  to  adjust  him- 
self. "But  Pullman  porters  are  not  Indians,  and  even  if 
they  were  I  can't  quite  see  how  it  affects  Benis  and  his 
lady  secretary." 

"The  principle,"  said  Aunt  Caroline,  "is  the  same." 

Rogers  wondered  if  his  brain  were  going.  At  any  rate 
he  felt  that  he  needed  a  smoke.  Aunt  Caroline  did  not 
like  smoke,  so  comparative  privacy  was  assured.  Also, 
a  good  smoke  might  show  him  a  way  out  of  his  difficulty. 

It  didn't.  At  the  end  of  the  second  cigar  the  cold  fact, 
imparted  by  the  clerk  in  the  steamship  office,  that  Pro- 
fessor Spence  and  wife  had  preceded  them  upon  this  very 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  125 

boat,  was  still  a  cold  fact  and  nothing  more.  The  long 
letter  from  the  bridegroom  which  would  have  made 
things  plain  had  passed  him  on  his  trip  across  the  con- 
tinent and  was  even  now  lying,  with  other  unopened  mail, 
in  his  Bainbridge  office. 

If  Benis  were  married,  then  the  bride  could  be  no  other 
than  the  nurse-secretary  he  had  written  about  in  that 
one  inconsequent  letter  to  which  he,  Rogers,  had  replied 
with  unmistakable  warning.  But  the  thing  seemed 
scarcely  credible.  If  it  were  a  fact,  then  it  might  very 
easily  be  a  tragedy  also.  Marriage  in  such  haste  and 
under  such  circumstances  could  scarcely  be  other  than 
a  mistake,  and  considering  the  quality  of  Benis  Spence, 
a  most  serious  one. 

John  Rogers  was  very  fond  of  his  eccentric  friend  and 
the  threatened  disaster  loomed  almost  personal.  He  felt 
himself  to  blame  too,  for  the  advice  which  had  thrown 
Spence  directly  from  the  frying-pan  of  Aunt  Caroline 
into  the  fire  of  a  sterner  fate.  Add  to  all  this  a  keen 
feeling  of  unwarranted  intrusion  and  we  have  some  idea 
of  the  state  of  mind  with  which  Dr.  John  Rogers  saw 
the  white  tents  of  the  campers  as  the  steamer  put  in  at 
Friendly  Bay. 

"There  are  two  tents,"  said  Aunt  Caroline  lowering 
her  lorgnette.     "I  shall  be  quite  comfortable." 

The  doctor  did  not  smile.  His  sense  of  humor  was 
suffering  from  temporary  exhaustion  and  his  strongest 
consciousness  was  a  feeling  of  relief  that  neither  Benis 
nor  anyone  else  appeared  to  notice  their  arrival.  Even  the 
unique  spectacle  of  a  middle-aged  lady  in  elastic-sided 
boots  proceeding  on  tiptoe,  and  with  all  the  tactics 
of  a  scouting  party,  toward  the  evidently  deserted  tents 
provoked  no  demonstration  from  anyone. 

'They're  not  here!"  called  the  scouting  party  in  a 
carrying  whisper. 


126  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

^'Obviously  not."  The  doctor  wiped  his  heated  fore- 
head. "Probably  they've  gone  for  the  night.  Then 
you'll  have  to  marry  me  to  save  my  reputation." 

"Jokes  upon  serious  subjects  are  in  very  bad  taste, 
young  man,"  said  Aunt  Caroline.  But  her  rebulce  was 
half-hearted.  She  looked  uneasy.  "John,"  she  added 
with  sudden  suspicion,  "you  don't  suppose  they  could 
have  known  we  were  coming?" 

"How  could  they  possibly?" 

"If  she  is  an  Indian,  they  might.  I've  heard  of  such 
things.    I — oh,  John !    Look  1" 

"Snake?"  asked  John  callously.  Nevertheless  he  fol- 
lowed Aunt  Caroline's  horrified  gaze  and  saw,  with  a 
thrill  of  more  normal  interest,  a  pair  of  dainty  mocca- 
sins whose  beaded  toes  protruded  from  the  flap  of  one 
of  the  tents. 

"Indian!"  gasped  Aunt  Caroline.    "Oh  John!" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it !"  Our  much  tried  physician  spoke  with 
salutary  shortness.  "They  may  be  Indian-made  but  that's 
all.  I'll  eat  my  hat  if  it's  an  Indian  who  has  worn  them. 
Did  you  ever  see  an  Indian  with  a  foot  like  that?" 

Indignation  enabled  Aunt  Caroline  to  disclaim  ac- 
quaintance with  any  Indian  feet  whatever. 

"It's  a  white  girl's  moccasin,"  he  assured  her.  "Lots 
of  girls  wear  them  in  camp.  Or,"  hastily,  "it  may  be  a 
curiosity.    Benis  may  be  making  a  collection." 

Aunt  Caroline  snorted.  Her  gaze  was  fixed  with  al- 
most piteous  intensity  upon  the  tent. 

"D'you  think  I  might  go  in?"  she  faltered. 

"You  might/'  said  John  carefully. 

Aunt  Caroline  sighed. 

"How  dreadful  to  have  traditions!"  she  murmured 
"There's  no  real  reason  why  I  shouldn't  go  in.  And," 
with  grim  honesty,  "if  you  weren't  here  watching  I  believe 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  127 

Vd  do  it.  Anyway  we  may  have  to,  if  they  don't  come 
soon.     I  can't  sit  on  this  grass.     I'm  sure  it's  damp." 

"ril  get  you  a  chair  from  Benis's  tent,"  offered  John 
unkindly.  'There  are  no  traditions  to  forbid  that,  are 
there?" 

*'No.  And,  John — you  might  look  around  a  little? 
Just  to  make  sure." 

The  doctor  nodded.  He  had  every  intention  of  look- 
ing around.  He  felt,  in  fact,  entitled  to  any  knowledge 
which  his  closest  observation  might  bring  him.  But 
the  tent  was  almost  empty.  That  at  least  proved  that 
the  tent  belonged  to  Spence.  He  was  a  man  with  an 
actual  talent  for  bareness  and  spareness  in  his  sleeping 
quarters.  Even  his  room  at  school  had  possessed  that 
man-made  neatness  which  one  associates  with  sailor's 
cabins  and  the  cells  of  monks.  The  camp-bed  was  trimly 
made,  a  dressing-gown  lay  across  a  canvas  chair,  a  shav- 
ing mug  hung  from  the  centre  pole — there  was  not  so 
much  as  a  hairpin  anywhere. 

John  crossed  thoughtfully  to  the  folding  stand  which 
stood  with  its  portable  reading  lamp  beside  the  bed. 
There  was  one  unusual  thing  there,  a  photograph.  Benis, 
as  his  friend  knew,  was  an  expert  amateur  photographer 
— but  he  never  perched  his  photographs  upon  stands. 
This  one  must  be  an  exception,  and  exceptions  are  il- 
luminating. 

It  was  still  quite  light  inside  the  tent  and  the  doctor 
could  see  the  picture  clearly.  It  was  an  extraordinarily 
good  one,  quite  in  the  professor's  happiest  style.  Compo- 
sition, lighting,  timing,  all  were  perfect.  But  it  is  doubt- 
ful if  John  Rogers  noticed  any  of  these  excellencies. 
He  was  absorbed  at  once  and  utterly  in  the  personality 
of  the  person  photographed.  This  was  a  girl,  bending 
over  a  still  pool.  The  pose  was  one  of  perfectly  arrested 
grace  and  the  face  which  was  lifted,  as  if  at  the  approach 


128  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

of  someone,  looked  directly  out  of  the  picture  and  into 
Roger's  eyes.  It  was  the  most  living  picture  he  had  ev^er 
seen.  The  lips  were  parted  as  if  for  speech,  there  was 
a  smile  behind  the  widely  opened  eyes.  And  both  face 
and  form  were  beautiful. 

The  doctor  straightened  up  with  a  sharply  drawn 
breath.  It  seemed  that  something  had  happened.  For 
one  flashing  instant  some  inner  knowledge  had  linked  him 
with  his  own  unlived  experience.  It  was  gone  as  soon  as 
it  came.  He  did  not  even  realize  it,  save  as  a  sense  of 
strangeness.  Yet,  as  a  chemist  lifts  a  vial  and  drops  the 
one  drop  which  changes  all  within  his  crucible,  so  some 
magic  philtre  tinged  John  Roger's  cup  of  life  in  that  one 
stolen  look. 

"Have  you  found  anything?"  Aunt  Caroline's  voice 
came  impatiently. 
.     "Nothing.'^ 

But  to  himself  he  added  "everything"  for  indeed  the 
mystery  of  Benis  seemed  a  mystery  no  longer.  The  pho- 
tograph made  everything  clear.  And  yet  not  so  clear, 
either.  The  doctor  looked  arotmd  at  the  ship-shape 
bachelorness  of  the  tent,  at  the  neat  pile  of  newly  typed 
manuscript  upon  the  bed,  and  felt  bewildered.  Even  the 
eccentricity  of  Benis,  in  its  most  extravagant  mode, 
seemed  inadequate  as  a  covering  explanation. 

Giving  himself  a  mental  shake,  the  intruder  picked  up 
the  largest  chair  and  rejoined  Aunt  Caroline. 

"It's  Benis  right  enough,"  he  announced.  "He  is 
probably  off  interviewing  Indians.  I  had  better  light  a 
fire.     It  may  break  the  news." 


XVI 

WE   left   the   professor   somewhat   abruptly    in    the 
midst  of   a  cryptic  ejaculation  of   "My  Aunt!" 

''How  can  it  be  your  Aunt?"  asked  Desire  reasonably. 

*'I  don't  know  how.  But,  owing  to  some  mysterious 
combination  of  the  forces  of  nature,  it  is  my  Aunt.  No 
one  else  could  wear  that  hat." 

"Then  hadn't  we  better  go  to  meet  her?  You  can^t 
sit  here  all  night." 

"I  know  I  can't.  It's  too  near.  We  didn't  see  her 
soon  enough!" 

"Cowardly  custard!"  said  Desire,  stamping  her  foot. 

The  professor's  mild  eyes  blinked  at  her  in  surprise. 
"Good!"  he  said  with  satisfaction.  "That  is  the  first  re- 
mark suitable  to  your  extreme  youth  that  I've  ever  heard 
vou  make.  But  the  sentiment  it  implies  is  all  wrong. 
Physical  courage,  as  such,  is  mere  waste  when  opposed 
to  my  Aunt.  What  is  wanted  is  technique.  Technique 
requires  thought.  Thought  requires  leisure.  That  is 
why  I  am  sitting  here  behind  a  boulder — what  is  she 
doing  now?" 

Desire  investigated. 

"She  is  walking  up  and  down." 

"A  bad  sign.  It  doesn't  leave  us  much  time.  The 
most  difficult  point  is  the  introduction.  Now,  in  an  in- 
troduction, what  counts  for  most?  Ancestors,  of  course. 
My  dear,  have  you  any  ancestors?" 

"Not  one." 

"I  was  afraid  of  that.  In  fact  I  had  intended  to  pro- 
vide a  few.  But  I  never  dreamed  they  would  be  needed 
so  soon.    What  is  she  doing  now?'* 

129 


130  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

*'She  has  stopped  walking.  She  has  turned.  She  is 
coming  this  way." 

'Then  we  must  take  our  chance."  The  professor 
rose  briskly.  ''Never  allow  the  enemy  to  attack.  Come 
on.    But  keep  behind  me  while  I  draw  her  fire." 

Aunt  Caroline  advanced  in  full  formation. 

"Benis.  Ben — nis !"  she  called  piercingly.  "He  can't 
be  very  far  away,"  she  declared  over  her  shoulder.  "I 
have  a  feeling — Benis!" 

"Who  calls  so  loud?"  quoted  the  professor  innocently, 
appearing  with  startling  suddenness  from  behind  the 
boulder.  "Why!"  in  amazed  recognition.  "It  is  Aunt 
Caroline !" 

"It  is."     Aunt  Caroline  corroborated  grimly. 

"This  is  a  surprise,"  exclaimed  the  professor.  As  we 
have  noted  before,  he  liked  to  be  truthful  when  possible. 
"How'd'do,  Aunt!    However  did  you  get  here?" 

"How  I  came,"  replied  Aunt  Caroline,  "is  not  mate- 
rial.   The  fact  that  I  am  here  is  sufficient." 

"Quite,"  said  Benis.  "But,"  he  added  in  a  puzzled 
tone,  "you  are  not  alone.  Surely,  my  dear  Aunt,  I 
see " 

"You  see  Dr.  Rogers  who  has  kindly  accompanied 
me." 

"John  Rogers  here?  With  you?"  In  rising  amaze- 
ment. 

"It  is  a  detail."  Aunt  Caroline's  voice  was  somewhat 
tart.     "I  could  scarcely  travel  unaccompanied." 

"Surely  not.  But  really — ^was  there  no  lady 
friend " 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Benis!"  But  she  was  obscurely  con- 
scious of  a  check.  Against  the  disturbed  surprise  of  her 
nephew's  attitude  her  sharpened  weapons  had  already 
turned  an  edge.  Only  one  person  can  talk  at  a  time, 
and,  to  her  intense  indignation,  she  found  herself  dis- 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  131 

placed  as  the  attacking  party.  Also  the  behavior  of  her 
auxiliary  force  was  distinctly  apologetic. 

''Hello,  Benis!"  said  Rogers,  coming  up  late  and  re- 
luctant. ''Sorry  to  have  dropped  in  on  you  like  this. 
But  your  Aunt  thought " 

"Don't  say  a  word,  my  dear  fellow!  No  apology  is 
necessary.  I  am  quite  sure  she  did.  But  it  might  be  a 
good  idea  for  you  to  do  a  little  thinking  yourself  occa- 
sionally. Aunt  is  so  rash.  How  were  you  to  know  that 
you  would  find  us  at  home?  Rather  a  risk,  what? 
Luckily,  Aunt,"  turning  to  that  speechless  relative  with 
reassurance,  "it  is  quite  all  right.  My  wife  will  be  de- 
lighted— Desire,  my  dear,  permit  me — Aunt,  you  will  be 
glad,  I'm  sure — this  is  Desire.  Desire,  this  is  your  new 
Aunt." 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Desire.  "I  have  never  had 
an  Aunt  before." 

It  was  the  one  thing  which  she  should  have  said.  Had 
she  known  Aunt  Caroline  for  years  she  could  not  have 
done  better.  But,  unfortunately,  that  admirable  lady  did 
not  hear  it.  She  had  heard  nothing  since  the  shattering 
blow  of  the  word  "wife." 

"John,"  she  said  hoarsely.  "Take  me  away.  Take  me 
away  at  once!" 

"Certainly,"  said  John.  "Only  it's  frightfully  damp  in 
the  woods.     And  there  may  be  bears." 

"Bears  or  not.    I  can't  stay  here." 

"Oh,  but  you  must,"  Desire  came  forward  with  inno- 
cent hospitality.  "You  can  sleep  on  my  cot  and  I'll  curl 
up  in  a  blanket.     I  am  quite  used  to  sleeping  out." 

Aunt  Caroline  closed  her  eyes.  It  was  true  then. 
Benis  Spence  had  married  a  squaw !  Blindly  she  groped 
for  the  supporting  hand  of  the  doctor.  "John,"  she 
moaned,  "did  you  hear  that?  Sleeping  out — oh  how 
could  he?" 


132  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


*'Very  easily,  I  should  think."  Under  the  sHght  handi- 
cap of  assisting  the  drooping  lady  to  her  chair,  John 
Rogers  looked  back  at  Desire,  standing  now  within  the 
radius  of  the  camp  fire's  light— and  once  again  he  felt 
the  strangeness  as  of  some  half-glimpsed  prophecy.  ''She 
is  wonderful,"  he  added.     "Look!" 

Aunt  Caroline  looked,  shuddered,  and  collapsed  again 
upon  a  whispered  "Indian !" 

"Nonsense!"  Rogers  almost  shook  her.  And  yet,  con- 
sidering the  suggestive  force  of  the  poor  lady's  precon- 
ceived ideas,  the  mistake  was  not  unpardonable.  In  those 
surroundings,  against  that  flickering  light,  standing, 
straight  and  silent  in  her  short  skirt  and  moccasins,  her 
leaf-brown  hair  tied  with  bracken  and  turned  to  midnight 
black  by  the  shadows,  her  grey  eyes  mysterious  under 
their  dark  lashes,  and  her  lips  unsmiling,  Desire  might 
well  have  been  some  beauty  of  that  vanishing  race.  A 
princess,  perhaps,  waiting  with  grave  courtesy  for  the 
welcome  due  her  from  her  husband's  people. 

"And  not  a  bit  ashamed  of  it,"  murmured  Aunt  Caro- 
line in  what  she  fondly  hoped  was  a  whisper.  "Utterly 
callous!  Benis,"  in  a  wavering  voice,  "I  had  a  feel- 
ing  '^ 

"Wait!"  interrupted  Benis,  producing  a  notebook  and 
pencil.  "Let  us  be  exact,  Aunt.  Just  when  did  you  no- 
tice the  feeling  first?" 

"What  difference  does  that  make?"  Aunt  Caroline's 
voice  was  perceptibly  stronger. 

"Why,"  eagerly,  "don't  you  see?  If  you  had  the  feel- 
ing at  the  time  (allowing  for  difference  by  the  sun)  it 
is  a  case  of  actual  clairvoyance.  If  the  feeling  was  ex- 
perienced previous  to  the  fact  then  it  is  a  case  of  pre- 
monition only,  and,  if  after,  the  whole  thing  can  be  ex- 
plained as  mere  telepathy." 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  133 

*'Oh,"  said  Aunt  Caroline.  But  she  said  it  thoughtfully. 
Her  voice  was  normal.  i 

"Wonderful  thing — this  psychic  sense,"  went  on  her 
nephew.  'Taney  you're  knowing  all  about  it  even  be- 
fore you  got  my  letter!" 

"Did  you  send  a  letter?"  asked  Aunt  Caroline  after  a 
pause. 

"Why  Aunt!  Of  course.  Two  of  them.  Before  and 
after.  But  I  might  have  known  you  would  hardly  need 
them.  If  you  had  only  arrived  a  few  days  sooner,  you 
might  have  been  present  at  the  ceremony." 

"Ceremony?    There  was  a  ceremony?" 

"My  dear  Aunt!" 

"The  Church  service?" 

"My  dear  Aunt!" 

"In  a  church?" 

"Not  exactly  a  church.  You  see  it  was  rather  late 
in  the  evening.  The  care-taker  had  gone  to  bed.  In 
fact  we  had  to  get  the  Rector  out  of  his." 

"Benis!" 

"He  didn't  mind.  Said  he'd  sleep  all  the  better  for  it. 
And  he  wore  his  gown — over  his  pyjamas — very  effec- 
tive." 

"Had   the  man  no  conscientious   scruples?"   sternly. 

"Scruples — against  pyjamas?" 

"Against  mixed  marriages." 

"I  don't  know.  I  didn't  ask  him.  We  weren't  dis- 
cussing the  ethics  of  mixed  marriage." 

"Don't  pretend  to  misunderstand  me,  Benis.  For  a 
man  who  has  married  an  Indian,  your  levity  is  disgrace- 
ful." 

"How  ridiculous.  Aunt!  If  you  will  listen  to  an  ex- 
planation  " 

"I  need  no  explanation,"  Aunt  Caroline,  once  more 
mistress  of  herself  rose  majestically.    "I  hope  I  know  an 


134  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


Indian  when  I  see  one.  I  am  not  blind,  I  believe.  But  as 
there  seems  to  be  no  question  as  to  the  marriage,  I  have 
nothing  further  to  say.  Another  woman  in  my  place 
might  feel  justified  in  voicing  a  just  resentment,  but  I 
have  made  it  a  rule  to  expect  nothing  from  any  relative, 
especially  if  that  relative  be,  even  partially,  a  Spence. 
When  my  poor,  dear  sister  married  your  father  I  told 
her  what  she  was  doing.  And  she  lived  to  say,  'Caro- 
line, you  were  right !'  That  was  my  only  reward.  More 
I  have  never  asked.  All  that  I  have  ever  required  of  my 
sister's  child  has  been  ordinary  docility  and  reliance  upon 
my  superior  sense  and  judgment.  Now  when  I  find 
that,  in  a  matter  so  serious  as  marriage,  neither  my  wishes 
nor  my  judgment  have  been  considered,  I  am  not  sur- 
prised. I  may  be  shocked,  outraged,  overv/helmed,  but 
I  am  not  surprised." 

**Bravo!"  said  Benis  involuntarily.  He  couldn't  help 
feeling  that  Aunt  Caroline  was  really  going  strong. 
"What  I  mean  to  say,"  he  added,  *'is  that  you  are  quite 
right  Aunt,  except  in  these  particulars,  in  which  you  are 
entirely  wrong.  But  before  we  go  further,  what  about 
a  little  sustenance.     Aren't  you  horribly  hungry?" 

''I  am  sure  they  are  both  starved,"  said  Desire.  "And 
I  hate  to  remind  you  that  you  ate  the  last  sandwich. 
Will  you  make  Aunt  Caroline  comfortable  while  I  cut 
some  more?  Perhaps  Dr.  John  will  help  me — although 
we  haven't  shaken  hands  yet." 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  the  uneasy  doctor  with  a 
charming  gesture  of  understanding.  "Did  you  expect  to 
see  a  squaw,  too,  Doctor?" 

"I  expected  to  see,  just  you."  His  response  was  a 
little  too  eager.  "I  had  seen  you  before — by  a  pool, 
bending  over " 

"Oh,  the  photograph?     Benis  is  terribly  proud  of  it." 

"Best  I've  ever  done,"  confirmed  the  professor.     "Did 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  135 

you  notice  the  curious  light  effect  on  that  silver  birch  at 
the  left  ?'^ 

"Wonderful,"  said  Rogers,  but  he  wasn't  thinking  of 
the  light  effect  on  the  silver  birch.  As  he  followed  Desire 
to  the  tent  his  orderly  mind  was  in  a  tumult.  "He 
doesn't  know  how  wonderful  she  is !"  he  thought.  "And 
she  doesn't  care  whether  he  does  or  not.  And  that  ex- 
plains  "     But  he  saw  in  a  moment  that  it  didn't 

explain  anything.      It  only  made   the  mystery   deeper. 

"And  now,  Benis,  that  we  are  alone "  began  Aunt 

Caroline.  .  .  . 

We  may  safely  leave  out  several  pages  here.  If  you 
realize  Aunt  Caroline  at  all,  you  will  see  that  at  least 
so  much  self-expression  is  necessary  before  anyone  else 
can  expect  a  chance.  Time  enough  to  pick  up  the  thread 
again  when  the  inevitable  has  happened  and  her  ex- 
hausted vocabulary  is  replaced  by  tears. 

"Not  that  I  care  at  all  for  my  own  feelings,"  wept 
Aunt  Caroline.  "There  are  others  to  think  of.  What 
will  Bainbridge  say?" 

Her  nephew  roused  himself.  From  long  experience 
he  knew  that  the  worst  v/as  over. 

"Bainbridge,  my  dear  Aunt,"  he  said,  "will  say  ex- 
actly what  you  tell  it  to  say.  It  was  because  we  realized 
this  that  we  decided  to  leave  the  whole  matter  in  your 
hands — all  the  announcing  and  things.  But  of  course," 
with  resignation,  "if  we  have  taken  too  much  for  granted  ; 
if  you  are  not  equal  to  it,  we  had  better  not  come  back 
to  Bainbridge  at  all." 

"Oh,"  cried  Aunt  Caroline  with  fresh  tears.  "My 
poor  boy!  The  very  idea!  To  think  that  I  should  JWe 
to  hear  you  say  it !  How  gladly  I  would  have  saved  you 
from  this  had  I  known  in  time." 

"I  am  sure  you  would,  Aunt.    But  the  gladness  would 


136  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

have  been  all  yours.  I  did  not  want  to  be  saved,  you 
see,  and  people  who  are  saved  against  their  will  are  so 
frightfully  ungrateful.  Wouldn't  you  like  a  dry  hanky? 
Just  wait  till  you've  had  a  couple  of  dozen  sandwiches. 
You'll  feel  quite  differently.  Think  what  a  relief  it  will 
be  to  have  me  off  your  mind.  You  can  relax  now,  and 
rest.  You've  been  overworking  for  years.  Consider  how 
peaceful  it  will  be  not  to  have  to  ask  any  more  silly  girls 
to  visit.  You  know  you  hated  it,  really,  and  only  did 
it  for  my  sake." 

*T  did  everything  for  your  sake,"  moaned  Aunt  Caro- 
line brokenly.  "And  they  were  silly.  But  I  hoped  you 
would  not  notice  it.  And  you  will  never  know  what  I 
went  through  trying  to  get  them  down  for  breakfast  at 
nine." 

*T  can  imagine  it,"  with  ready  sympathy.  "They  al- 
ways yawned.  And  there  must  have  been  many  darker 
secrets  which  I  never  guessed.  You  kept  them  from  me. 
Do  you  remember  that  hole  in  Ada's  stocking?" 

"Yes,  but  I " 

"Never  mind.  The  fib  wasn't  nearly  as  big  as  the  hole. 
But  how  could  you  expect  me  to  help  noticing  the  gen- 
eral lightness  and  frivolity  of  your  visitors,  shown  up 
so  plainly  against  the  background  of  your  own  character?" 

"Y-es.     I  didn't  think  of  that." 

"Perhaps  I  should  never  have  married  if  I  had  not  got 
away — from  the  comparison,  I  mean." 

"There  was  a  danger,  I  suppose.  But,"  with  renewed 
grief,  "Oh,  Benis,  such  a  wedding !  No  cards,  no  cake — 
and  in  pyjamas — oh!" 

"Come  now.  Aunt,  don't  give  way!  And  do  you  feel 
that  it  is  quite  right  to  criticise  the  clerg}^?  I  always 
fancy  that  it  is  the  first  step  toward  free-thinking.  And 
you  couldn't  see  much  of  them,  you  know,  only  the  legs. 
^Besides,  consider  what  a  wedding  with  cards  and  cake 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  137 

would  have  meant  in  Bainbridge  at  this  time.  No  sec- 
ond maid,  no  proper  cook!  We  should  have  appeared 
at  a  disadvantage  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole  town.  As  it 
is,  we  can  take  our  time,  engage  competent  help,  select 
a  favorable  date  and  give  a  reception  which  will  be  the 
very  last  word  in  elegance." 

*'Yes!  I  could  get — what  am  I  talking  about?  Of 
course  I  shan't  do  anything  of  the  kind.  How  can  you 
ask  me  to?     Oh,  Benis — a  heathen!" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Aunt.  Church  of  England.  But  I 
can  see  what  has  happened.  You  have  been  allowing  old 
Bones  to  cloud  your  judgment.  I  never  knew  a  fellow 
so  prone  to  jump  to  idiotic  conclusions.  No  doubt  he 
heard  that  I  had  come  in  search  of  Indians  and,  without 
a  single  inquiry,  decided  that  I  had  married  one." 

''It  was  hasty  of  him.  I  admit  that,"  said  Aunf  Caro- 
line wiping  her  eyes. 

''But  with  your  knowledge  of  my  personal  character 
you  will  understand  that  my  interest  in,  and  admiration 
for,  our  aborigines  in  their  darker  and  wilder  state " 

"John  said  they  were  only  fairly  wild." 

"Well,  e\^en  in  a  fairly  wild  state.  Or  indeed  in  a 
wholly  tame  one.  My  interest  at  any  time  is  purely  sci- 
entific and  would  never  lead  me  to  marry  into  their  fam- 
ily circle.  My  wife's  father,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  is 
English.  A  professional  man,  retired,  and  living  upon 
a  small — er — estate  near  Vancouver.  Her  mother,  who 
died  when  Desire  was  a  child,  was  English  also." 

"Who  took  care  of  the  child?" 

"A  Chinaman."  The  professor  was  listening  to  De- 
sire's distant  laugh  and  answered  absently  with  more 
truth  than  wisdom. 

''What!''    The  tone  of  horror  brought  him  back. 

"Oh,  you  mean  who  brought  her  up  ?    Her  father,  of 


138  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

''You  said  a  Chinaman." 

"They  had  a  Chinese  cook." 

"Scandalous!  Had  the  child  no  Aunt?" 

The  professor  sighed.  "Poor  girl,"  he  said.  "One  of 
the  first  things  she  told  me  about  herself  was,  1  have  no 
Aunt.'  " 

Aunt  Caroline  polished  her  nose  thoughtfully. 

"That  would  account  for  a  great  deal,"  she  admitted. 
"And  her  being  English  on  both  sides  is  something.  Now 
that  you  speak  of  it,  I  did  notice  a  slight  accent.  I  never 
met  an  English  person  yet  who  could  say  "a"  properly. 
But  she  is  young  and  may  learn.    In  the  meantime " 

"The  sandwiches  are  ready,"  called  Desire  from  the 
tent. 


XVII 

AND  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  she  really  believes 
that  lie?" 

Benis  Spence  had  taken  his  medical  adviser  up  the 
slope  to  the  Indian  burying-ground.  It  v^as  the  one  place 
within  reasonable  radius  where  they  were  not  likely  to 
be  interrupted  by  periodic  appearances  of  Aunt  Caro- 
line. Aunt  Caroline  never  took  liberties  with  burying- 
grounds.  **A  graveyard  is  a  graveyard,"  said  Aunt  Caro- 
line, ''and  not  a  place  for  casual  conversation."  There- 
fore, amid  the  graves  and  the  crosses,  the  friends  felt 
fairly  safe. 

"Why  shouldn't  she  believe  it?"  countered  Spence. 
*'Don't  you  suppose  I  can  tell  a  lie  properly?" 

'To  be  honest— I  don't." 

"Well,"  somewhat  gloomily,  "this  one  seemed  to  go 
over  all  right.  It  went  much  farther  than  I  ever  ex- 
pected. It's  far  too  up-and-coming.  The  way  it  grows 
frightens  me.  At  first  there  was  nothing — just  an  'ex- 
perience.' A  mild  abstraction,  buried  in  the  past,  a  sen- 
timental 'has-been'  without  form  or  substance.  Then, 
without  warning,  the  experience  acquired  a  name,  and 
then  a  history  and  then,  just  when  I  had  begim  to  forget 
about  it,  hair  suddenly  popped  up,  yellow  hair,  and, 
the  day  after,  eyes — blue  eyes,  misty.  The  nose  remains 
indeterminate,  but  noses  often  do.  Only  yesterday 
I  felt  compelled  to  add  a  mouth.  Small  and  red,  I  made 
it — ugh!  How  I  hate  a  small  red  mouth.  Oh,  if  it 
amuses  you — all  right !" 

"Laugh  at  it  yourself,  old  man!  It's  all  you  can  do. 
But  what  a  frightful  list  of  blunders.    If  you  had  to  tell 

139 


140  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

a  lie  why  didn't  you  take  Mark  Twain's  advice  and  tell 
a  good  one?  The  name,  for  instance — why  on  earth  did 
you  choose  'Mary?'  Even  'Marion'  would  have  been 
safer.  Don't  you  know  you  can't  turn  a  corner  in  Bain- 
bridge  or  anywhere  else  without  stumbling  over  a  Mary  ? 
There's  a  Mary  in  my  office  at  the  present  minute  and — 
yes,  by  Jove,  she  has  golden  hair !" 

The  professor  looked  stubborn. 

"My  Mary's  hair  was  not  golden.  It  was  yellow,  plain 
yellow.    I  remember  I  made  a  point  of  that." 

"Well  then,  there's  Mary  Davis.    You  remember  her?" 

"The  one  w^ho  visited  Aunt  Caroline?" 

"Yes.  Pretty  girl.  About  your  own  age!  'Twas 
thought  in  Bainbridge  that  her  thoughts  turned  youward. 
Her  hair  was  yellow  then,  and  may  be  again  by  now. 
And  she  had  blue  eyes,  bright  blue." 

"My  Mary's  were  not  bright  blue.  Hers  were  misty, 
like  the  hills." 

"Forget  it,  old  man!  You'll  find  you  w^on't  be  able 
to  insist  on  shades.  Any  Mary  with  golden,  yellow. 
tawny  or  tow-colored  hair,  and  old  blue,-  grey  blue,  Alice 
blue  or  plain  blue  eyes  will  come  under  Mrs.  Spence's 
reflective  observation.  Your  progress  will  be  a  regular 
charge  of  the  light  brigade  with  Marys  on  all  sides." 

"Now  you're  making  yourself  unpleasant,"  said  the 
professor.  "And,  to  change  the  subject,  why  do  you  in- 
sist upon  calling  Desire  'Mrs.  Spence?'  She  calls  vou 
John."    ^ 

To  his  questioner's  infinite  amazement  the  doctor 
blushed. 

"She  has  told  me  I  might,"  he  admitted.  "But  it 
seemed  so  dashed  cheeky." 

"Why?  You  are  at  least  ten  years  older  than  she. 
And  a  friend  of  the  family." 

"Ten  years  is  nothing,"  said  the  doctor.    "And  I  want 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  141 

to  be  her  friend,  not  a  friend  of  the  family.  Besides, 
she,  herself,  is  not  at  all  like  the  girls  of  twenty  whom 
one  usually  meets." 

"She  is  simpler,  perhaps.*' 

"In  manner,  but  not  in  character.  There  is  a  distance, 
a  poise,  a — surely  you  feel  what  I  mean." 

"Imagination,  John.  It  is  you  who  create  the  distance 
by  clinging  to  formality." 

"All  right.    You're  sure  you  don't  object?" 

"My  dear  Bones,  why  should  I  possibly?" 

The  doctor  looked  sulky.    Benis  smiled. 

"Look  here,  John,"  he  said  after  a  reflective  pause. 
"Desire  is  as  direct  as  a  child.  If  she  calls  you  by  your 
first  name  you  can  depend  that  she  feels  no  embarrass- 
ment about  it.  So  why  should  you?  And  there's  an- 
other thing.  She  may  not  find  everything  quite  easy  in 
Bainbridge.  She  will  need  your  frank  and  unembarrassed 
friendship — as  well  as  mine." 

"Yours?" 

"Yes.  You  understand  the  situation,  don't  you?  At 
least  as  far  as  understanding  is  necessary.  And  you 
are  the  only  one  who  will  understand.  So  you  will  be 
of  more  use  to  her  than  anyone  else,  except  me.  I  am 
going  to  do  my  best  to  make  her  happy.  It's  my  job.  I 
am  not  turning  it  over  to  you.  But  there  may  be  times 
when  I  shall  fail.  There  may  be  times  when  I  shan't 
know  that  she  isn't  happy — a  lack  of  perspective  or  some- 
thing. If  ever  there  comes  a  time  like  that  and  you 
know  of  it,  don't  spare  me.  I  have  taken  the  responsi- 
bility of  her  youth  upon  my  shoulders  and  I  am  not 
going  to  shirk.  It  will  be  her  happiness  first — at  all 
costs." 

"People  aren't  usually  made  happy  at  all  costs,"  said 
the  doctor  wisely. 

"They  may  be,  if  they  do  not  know  the  price." 


142  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


"I  see." 

''You'll  know  where  I  stand  a  bit  better  when  you've 
read  a  letter  you'll  find  waiting  for  you  at  home.  But 
here  is  the  whole  point  of  the  matter — I  had  to  get  De- 
sire away  from  that  devilish  old  parent  of  hers.  And 
marriage  was  the  only  effective  way.  But  Desire  did 
not  want  marriage.  She  has  never  told  me  just  why 
but  I  have  seen  and  heard  enough  to  know  that  her  hor- 
ror of  the  idea  is  deep  seated,  a  spiritual  nausea,  an 
abnormal  twist  which  may  never  straighten.  I  say  'may,' 
because  there  is  a  good  chance  the  other  way.  All  one 
can  do  is  to  wait.  And  in  the  meantime  I  want  her  to 
find  life  pleasant.  She  once  told  me  that  she  was  a  win- 
dow-gazer.    I  want  to  open  all  the  doors." 

"Except  the  one  door  that  matters,"  said  Rogers 
gloomily. 

''Nonsense!  You  don't  believe  that.  Life  has  many 
things  to  give  besides  the  love  of  man  and  woman." 

''Has  it  ?  You'll  know  better  some  day — even  a  cold- 
blooded fish  li!:e  you." 

"Fish?"  said  Spence  sorrowfully.  "And  from  mine 
own  familiar  friend?     Fish!" 

"What  will  you  do,"  exploded  the  doctor,  "when  she 
wakes  up  and  finds  how  you  have  cheated  her?  When 
she  realizes,  too  late,  that  she  has  sold  her  birthright?" 

The  professor  rose  slowly  and  dusted  the  dry  grass 
from  the  knees  of  his  knickers.  "Tut,  tut!"  he  said, 
"the  subject  excites  you.  Let  us  talk  about  me  for  a 
change.  Observe  me  carefully,  John,  and  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  me.  Only  not  in  marine  language.  Am  I 
an  Apollo?  Or  a  Greek  god?  Or  even  a  movie  star 
of  the  third  magnitude?  Or  am  I,  not  to  put  too  fine 
a  point  on  it,  as  homely  as  a  hedge  fence?" 
"Oh,  hang  it,  Benis,  stop  your  fooling." 
"I'm  not  fooling.     I  want  you  to  understand  that  I 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  143 

have  consulted  my  mirror.  And  I  know  just  how  likely 
I  am  to  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  a  young  girl.  I 
take  my  chance,  nevertheless.  Your  question,  divested 
of  oratory,  means  what  shall  I  do  if  Desire  finds  her 
mate  and  that  mate  is  not  myself?  My  answer,  also 
divested  of  oratory,  is  that  I  do  not  keep  what  does  not 
belong  to  me.     Is  that  plain?" 

The  doctor  nodded.  "Plain  enough,"  he  said.  "But 
how  will  you  know?" 

"Well,  I  might  guess.  You  see,"  resuming  his  seat 
and  his  ordinary  manner  at  the  same  time,  "Desire  is 
my  secretary.  I  make  a  point  of  studying  the  psychol- 
ogy of  those  who  work  with  me.  And,  aside  from  the 
slight  abnormality  which  I  have  mentioned,  Desire  is 
very  true  to  type,  her  own  type — a  very  womanly  one. 
And  a  woman  in  love  is  hard  to  mistake.  But,"  cheer- 
fully, "she  is  only  a  child  yet  in  matters  of  loving.  And 
she  may  never  grow  up." 

"You  seem  quite  happy  about  it." 

"  'Call  no  man  happy  till  he  is  dead.'  And  yet — I  am 
happy.     If  tears  must  come,  why  anticipate  them?" 

"There  speaks  the  hopeless  optimist,"  said  Rogers, 
laughing.  "But  because  I  called  you  a  fish,  I'll  give 
you  a  bit  of  valuable  advice.  I  can't  see  you  scrap  quite 
all  your  chances.     Kill  Mary." 

"I  can't.  Besides,  why  should  I  ?  Desire  Hkes  to  hear 
about  her.  Or  says  she  does.  It  provides  her  with  an 
interest.  And  a  little  perfectly  human  jealousy  is  very 
stimulating." 

"You  think  she  is  jealous?" 

"Oh,  not  in  the  way  you  mean.  But  every  woman 
likes  to  be  first,  even  with  her  friends.  And  if  she  can't 
be  first,  she  is  healthily  curious  about  the  woman  who 
is.     Desire  would  miss  Mary  very  much." 

"You've  been  a  fool,  Benis." 


144  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

*1  shall  try  not  to  be  a  bigger  one." 

The  friends  looked  polite  daggers  at  each  other.  And 
suddenly  smiled. 

*To  be  continued  in  our  next,"  said  Rogers.  *ls  it 
finally  settled  that  we  turn  homeward  tomorrow?" 

"'Yes.  We  did  our  last  extracting  from  the  hawk- 
eyed  one  yesterday.  He  has  been  a  real  find,  John.  Do 
you  know  what  he  calls  Aunt  Caroline?  'The-old- 
woman-who-sniffs-the-air.'  Desire  did  not  translate. 
Isn't  she  rather  a  wonder,  John  ?  Did  you  ever  see  any- 
thing like  the  way  she  manages  Aunt?" 

But  the  doctor's  eyes  were  on  the  distant  tents. 

*' Someone  in  blue  is  waving  to  us,"  he  said.  "It  must 
be  your  Aunt" 

Spence  lazily  raised  his  eyes. 

"No.     That's  Desire.     She  is  wearing  blue." 

"She  was  wearing  pink  this  morning." 

"Yes.     But  she  won't  be  wearing  it  this  afternoon." 

"How  do  you  know?"  curiously. 

The  professor  yawned.  "By  psychology!  I  hap- 
pened to  mention  that  pink  was  Mary's  favorite  color." 

Rogers  opened  his  lips.  He  was  plainly  struggling 
with  himself. 

"Don't  trouble,"  said  Spence  serenely.  "I  know  what 
you  feel  it  your  duty  to  say.  But  it  isn't  really  your 
duty.  And  there  would  be  no  use  in  saying  it,  anyway. 
I  take  my  chances !" 


XVIII 

THE  long  Transcontinental  puffed  steadily  up  toward 
the  white-capped  peaks  of  a  continent.  They  were 
a  day  out  from  Vancouver — a  day  during  which  Desire 
had  sat  upon  the  observation  platform,  drugged  with 
wonder  and  beauty.  She  had  known  mountains  all  her 
life.  They  were  dear  and  familiar,  and  the  sound  of 
rushing  water  was  in  her  blood.  But  these  heights 
and  depths,  these  incredible  valleys,  these  ever-climbing, 
piling  hills  pushing  brown  shoulders  through  their  mil- 
lion pines,  the  dizzy,  twisting  track  and  the  constant 
marvel  of  the  man-made  train  which  braved  it,  held  her 
spellbound  and  almost  speechless. 

Fortunately,  Aunt  Caroline  was  indisposed  and  had 
remained  all  day  in  the  privacy  of  their  reserved  com- 
partment. Only  one  such  reservation  had  been  avail- 
able and  the  men  of  the  party  had  been  compelled  to 
content  themselves  with  upper  berths  in  the  next  car. 

To  Desire,  who  presented  that  happy  combination,  a 
good  traveller  still  uncloyed  by  travel,  every  deft  ar- 
rangement of  the  comfortable  train  provided  matter  for 
curiosity  and  interest — the  little  ladders  for  the  upstair 
berths,  the  tiny  reading-lamps,  the  paper  bags  for  one's 
new  hat,  the  queer  little  soaps  and  drinking  cups  in  sealed 
oil  paper — all  these  brought  their  separate  thrill.  And 
then  there  was  the  inexhaustible  interest  of  the  trav- 
ellers themselves.  When  night  had  fallen  and  the  great 
Outside  withdrew  itself,  she  turned  with  eager  eyes  to 
the  shifting  world  around  her,  a  human  world  even  more 
absorbing  than  the  panorama  of  the  hills. 

What  was  there,  for  instance,  about  that  handsome 

145 


146  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

old  lady,  from  Golden  (fascinating  name!)  which  per- 
mitted her  to  act  as  if  the  whole  train  were  her  private 
suite  and  all  the  porters  servants  of  her  person?  She 
was  the  most  autocratic  old  lady  Desire  had  ever  seen 
and  far  younger  and  more  alert  than  the  tired-looking 
daughter  who  accompanied  her.  They  were  going  to 
New  York.  They  went  to  New  York  every  year.  De- 
sire wondered  why. 

She  wondered,  too,  about  the  rancher's  wife  going 
home  to  Scotland  for  the  first  time  since  her  marriage. 
What  did  it  feel  like  to  be  going  home — to  a  real  home 
with  a  mother  and  brothers  and  sisters?  What  did  it 
feel  like  to  be  taking  two  dark-haired,  bright-eyed  babies, 
as  like  as  twins  and  with  only  a  year  between  them,  for 
the  fond  approval  of  grand-parents  across  the  seas?  .  .  . 
The  rancher's  wife  looked  as  if  she  enjoyed  it.  But 
women  will  pretend  anything. 

Desire's  eyes  shifted  to  the  inevitable  honeymoon 
couple  who  were  going  to  Winnipeg  to  visit  *'his"  peo- 
ple. The  bride  was  almost  painfully  smart,  but  she  was 
pretty  and  ''he"  adored  her.  Her  mouth  was  small  and 
red.  It  fascinated  Desire.  She  could  not  keep  her  eyes 
off  it.  It  was  like — well,  it  was  the  kind  of  mouth  men 
seemed  to  admire.  She  tried  honestly  to  admire  it  her- 
self, but  the  more  she  tried  the  less  admirable  she  found 
it.     She  wondered  if  Benis 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  bride?"  she  murmured, 
under  cover  of  a  magazine. 

** Where?"  said  Benis,  in  an  unnecessarily  loud  voice, 
laying  down  his  paper. 

"S-sshl     Over  there.     The  girl  in  green." 

"Pretty  little  thing,"  said  Benis.  His  tone  lacked 
conviction. 

"Lovely  eyes,  don't  you  think?     Nice  hair  and  such 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  147 

a  darling  nose.  But  her  mouth — isn't  her  mouth  rather 
small?" 

"Regular  'prunes  and  prisms/  "  agreed  Benis. 

*'It  is  very  red,  though.'* 

"Lipstick,  probably." 

"But  I  thought  you  liked  small,  red  mouths." 

"Hate  'em,"  said  Benis,  who  had  a  shockingly  bad 
memory. 

Desire  went  to  bed  thoughtful.  "I  suppose,"  she 
thought  as  she  lay  listening  to  the  swinging  train,  "men 
like  certain  things  because  they  belong  to  certain  people 
and  not  because  they  like  them  really  at  all."  This  was 
not  very  lucid  but  it  seemed  to  satisfy  Desire  for  she 
stopped  thinking  and  went  to  sleep. 

Morning  found  them  on  the  top  of  the  world.  De- 
sire was  up  and  out  long  before  the  mists  had  lifted. 
She  watched  the  wonder  of  their  going,  she  saw  the 
coming  of  the  sun.  She  drew  in,  with  great  deep 
breaths,  the  high,  sweet  air.  The  cream  of  her  skin 
glowed  softly  with  the  tang  of  it. 

"Quite  lovely!"  said  a  voice  behind  her,  and  Desire 
turned  to  find  her  solitude  shared  by  the  young  old  lady 
from  Golden. 

"Your  complexion,  I  mean,  my  dear,"  said  she,  sitting 
down  comfortably  in  the  folds  of  a  fur  coat.  "I  never 
use  adjectives  about  the  mountains.  It  would  seem  im- 
pertinent.    How  old  are  you?" 

Desire  gave  her  age  smiling.  "Charming  age," 
nodded  the  old  lady.  "Youth  is  a  wonderful  thing.  See 
that  you  keep  it." 

"Like  you?"  said  Desire,  her  smile  brightening. 

The  old  lady  looked  pleased. 

"Quite  so,"  she  said.  "Never  allow  yourself  to  be- 
lieve that  silly  folly  about  a  woman  being  as  old  as  she 
looks.     As  if  a  mirror  had  more  mind  than  the  person 


148  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


looking  in  it !  I  remember  very  well  waking  up  on  the 
morning  of  my  thirtieth  birthday  and  thinking,  'I  am 
thirty.  I  am  growing  old.'  But,  thank  heaven,  I  had 
a  mind.  I  soon  put  a  stop  to  that.  'Not  a  day  older 
will  I  grow !'  I  said.  And  I  never  have.  What's  a  mind 
for,  if  not  to  make  use  o,f  ?" 

Desire  looked  a  little  awed  at  an  audacity  which  de- 
fied time. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,"  went  on  her  companion. 
"I  don't  mean  that  I  tried  to  look  young.  I  was  young. 
I  am  young  still." 

"Yes,"  said  Desire.  "I  see  what  you  mean.  But — 
wasn't  it  lonely?" 

The  old  lady  patted  her  arm  with  an  approving  hand. 

"Clever  child!"  she  said.  "Yes,  of  course  it  was 
lonely.  But  one  can't  have  everything.  Pick  out  what 
you  want  most  and  cling  to  it.  Let  the  rest  go.  It's 
a  good  philosophy." 

"Isn't  it  selfish?" 

"Youth  is  always  selfish,"  complacently.  "I  feel  quite 
complimented  now  when  anyone  calls  me  a  selfish  crea- 
ture.    You  are  a  bride,  aren't  you  ?" 

Desire  blushed  beautifully.  But  one  couldn't  resent 
so  frank  an  interest. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"That  thin,  dark  man  is  your  husband  ?  The  one  with 
the  chin?" 

"He  has  a  chin,"  doubtfully.  ''Oh,  I  see  what  you 
mean.     Yes,  he  is  my  husband." 

"Odd  you  never  noticed  his  chin  before,"  commented 
the  old  lady.  "Well,  look  out !  That  man  has  reserves. 
Who  is  the  other  one?" 

"A  friend." 

The  old  lady  shook  a  well-kept  finger. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  149 

"Inconvenient  things,  friends !"  said  she.  ''Far  better 
without  them." 

''Haven't  you  any?" 

"Not  one.  They  went  on.  All  old  fogies  now."  Her 
air  of  boredom  was  unfeigned. 

"But  you  have  your  daughter." 

"Too  old!"  The  youthful  eyes  twinkled  maliciously. 
"Now  you,  my  dear,  would  be  nearer  my  age.  For  you 
have  youth  within  as  well  as  without.  Keep  it.  It's 
all  there  is  worth  having." 

Desire  smiled.  But  the  words  lingered.  She  had 
never  valued  her  youth.  She  had  been  impatient  of  it. 
And  now  to  be  told  that  it  was  all  there  was  worth  hav- 
ing! It  was  the  creed  of  selfishness.  And  yet — had  life 
already  given  her  one  of  her  greatest  treasures  and  had 
she  come  near  to  missing  the  meaning  of  the  gift? 

At  breakfast  she  observed  her  husband's  chin  so  nar- 
rowly that  he  became  uneasy,  wondering  if  he  had  for- 
gotten to  shave.  She  looked  at  John's  chin,  too,  with 
reflective  eyes.     Undoubtedly  it  was  much  inferior. 

The  train  had  conquered  the  mountains  now  and  was 
plunging  down  upon  their  farther  side.  Soon  they  were 
in  the  foot-hills  and  then  nothing  but  a  flashing  streak 
across  an  endless,  endless  tableland  of  wheat.  Desire, 
who  had  never  seen  the  prairie,  smiled  whimsically. 

"It  is  like  coming  from  the  world's  cathedral  to  the 
world's  breakfast-table !"  said  she. 

Aunt  Caroline  snorted.  For  her  part,  she  said,  she 
found  train  breakfasts  much  the  same  anywhere  except 
near  the  Great  Lakes,  where  one  might  expect  better  fish. 

It  grew  very  hot.  The  effortless  speed  of  the  train 
rolled  up  the  blazing  miles  and  threw  them  behind,  leagiie 
on  league.  The  sun  set  and  rose  on  a  level  sky.  The 
babies  of  the  rancher's  wife  grew  tired  and  sticky.  They 
were  almost  too  much  for  their  equally  tired  mother,  so 


150  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


half  of  them  sat  on  Desire's  lap  most  of  the  time.  De- 
sire's half  seemed  to  bounce  a  great  deal  and  gave  bubbly 
kisses,  but  the  rings  around  its  fat  wrist  and  the  pink 
dimples  in  its  fingers  were  well  worth  while  keeping  clean 
and  cool  just  to  look  at.  It  was  true,  as  Desire  reminded 
herself,  that  she  did  not  care  for  children,  but  anyone 
might  find  a  round,  fat  one  with  cooey  laughs  a  pleasant 
thing  to  play  with!  She  did  it  mostly  when  Benis  was 
in  the  smoker  with  John. 

At  Winnipeg  the  honeymoon  couple  left  them  and 
the  old  lady  from  Golden,  much  to  her  disgust,  was  also 
compelled  to  stay  over  for  a  day  because  her  middle-aged 
daughter  was  train-sick.  Other  and  less  interesting  faces 
took  their  places. 

Desire  watched  them  hopefully  but  the  only  one  who 
seemed  appealing  was  a  sturdy  prairie  school  teacher 
going  "home."  Desire  liked  the  school  teacher.  She 
was  so  solid,  so  sure  of  herself,  so  wrapped  up  in  and 
satisfied  wuth  something  which  she  called  ''education." 

She  asked  Desire  where  she  had  been  educated.  De- 
sire did  not  seem  to  know.  *7^st  any^vhere,"  she  said, 
''when  father  felt  like  it  and  had  time.  And  I  taught 
myself  shorthand." 

"Then  you  aren't  really  educated  at  all?"  said  the 
teacher  with  frank  pity.  "What  a  shame!  Education 
is  so  important." 

Benis  was  frankly  afraid  of  her. 

"But  you  need  not  be,"  Desire  assured  him.  "She 
looks  up  to  you.  She  thinks  that,  being  a  professor,  you 
have  even  more  education  than  she  has." 

"God  forbid!"  said  Benis  devoutly. 

"Besides,  she  knows  all  about  you.  I  found  out  today 
that  she  is  an  Ontario  girl.  And  she  lives — guess  where  ? 
In  Bainbridge!" 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  151 

Aunt  Caroline  (they  were  at  dinner)  looked  up  from 
her  roast  lamb  and  remarked  "Impossible." 

"But  she  does,  Aunt.     She  says  so.'' 

Aunt  Caroline  fancied  that  probably  the  young  per- 
son was  mistaken.  "Certainly,"  she  said,  "I  have  never 
heard  of  her." 

"She  lives,"  said  Desire,  "on  Barker  Street  and  she 
took  her  first  class  teacher's  certificate  at  Bainbridge  Col- 
legiate Institute." 

Aunt  Caroline  fancied  that  they  gave  almost  anyone 
a  certificate  there.  All  one  had  to  do  was  to  pass  the 
examinations.  As  to  Barker  Street — there  was  a  Barker 
Street,  certainly.  And  this  young  person  might  live  on 
it.  She,  herself,  was  not  acquainted  with  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

"But  she  knows  you,"  Desire  persisted.  "She  said, 
*Oh,  is  Miss  Caroline  Campion  your  Aunt?  I  remem- 
ber her  from  my  youth  up.'  " 

"Very  impertinent,"  said  Miss  Campion.  Her  neph- 
ew's eyes  began  to  twinkle. 

"Oh,  everyone  knows  Aunt  Caroline,"  he  explained. 
"But  then,  everyone  knows  the  Queen  of  England." 

Aunt  Caroline  was  mollified.  "Of  course,  in  that 
sense "     She  felt  able  to  go  on  with  her  roast  lamb. 

Dr.  Rogers,  who  had  listened  to  this  interchange  with 
delight,  said  now  that  the  young  lady  had  been  quite  right 
about  her  place  of  residence.  She  did  live  in  Bainbridge, 
on  Barker  Street.  He  did  not  know  her  personally  but 
her  older  sister  was  a  patient  of  his.  The  mother  and 
father  were  dead.     Very  nice,  quiet  people. 

Desire  was  quite  young  enough  to  laugh  and  to  point 
this  with  "Dead  ones  usually  are.'* 

The  school  teacher,  at  another  table,  heard  the  laugh 
and  felt  a  passing  sense  of  injustice.  It  seemed  unfair 
that  anyone  so  obviously  without  education  could  feel 


152  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

free  to  laugh  in  that  satisfying  way.  It  was  plain  that 
young  Mrs.  Spence  scarcely  realized  her  sad  deficiency. 
And  it  certainly  was  a  little  discouraging  that  the  clever- 
est men  almost  invariably.  .  .  . 

Fort  William  came  and  passed  and  in  the  sparkling 
sunshine  of  another  morning  the  train  dashed  into  the 
wild  Superior  country  where  the  wealth  lies  under  the 
rock  instead  of  above  it.  To  Desire,  her  first  glimpse 
of  the  Great  Lake  was  like  a  glimpse  of  home.  The 
coolness  of  the  air  was  grateful  after  prairie  heat  but, 
scarcely  had  she  welcomed  back  the  smell  of  pine  and 
fir,  before  it,  too,  was  left  behind  and  they  swung  swiftly 
into  a  softer  land — a  land  of  rolling  fields  and  fences 
and  farmhouses;  of  little  towns,  with  tree-lined  roads;  of 
streams  less  noisy  and  more  disciplined;  of  fat  cows 
drowsy  in  the  growing  heat. 

'This,"  said  Aunt  Caroline  with  a  breath  of  proprie- 
tary satisfaction,  "is  Ontario." 

Desire,  always  literal,  pointed  out  that  according  to 
the  map  in  the  time-table,  they  had  been  in  Ontario  for 
some  considerable  time. 

Aunt  Caroline  thought  that  the  map  was  probably  mis- 
taken. 'Tor,"  she  added  with  finality,  ''it  was  certainly 
not  the  Ontario  to  which  I  have  been  accustomed." 

This  settled  the  matter  for  any  sensible  person. 

"We  are  nearly  home  now,"  she  went  on  kindly.  *'I 
hope  you  are  not  feeling  very  nervous,  my  dear." 

"I  am  not  feeling  nervous  at  all,"  said  Desire  with 
surprise. 

Fortunately  Aunt  Caroline  took  this  proof  of  insensi- 
bility in  a  flattering  light. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said.  "It  is  not,  of  course,  as  if  you 
were  arriving  alone.  You  can  depend  upon  me  entirely. 
John,  are  you  sure  that  your  car  will  be  in  waiting?" 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  153 

"I  wired  it  to  wait,"  grinned  John.  "And  usually 
it's  a  good  waiter." 

''Because,"  said  Aunt  Caroline,  "we  do  not  wish  to  be 
delayed  at  the  station.  If  Eliza  Merry  weather  is  there, 
the  quicker  we  get  away  the  better.  I  am  determined 
that  she  shall  be  introduced  to  Desire  exactly  when  other 
people  are  and  not  before.  Please  remember  that,  Benis. 
Introduce  Desire  to  no  one  at  the  station.  I  think,  my 
dear,  we  may  put  on  our  hats." 

"It's  an  hour  yet.  Aunt." 

"I  know,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  be  hurried." 

Desire  put  on  her  hat.  It  was  because  she  was  al- 
ways willing  to  give  Aunt  Caroline  her  way  in  small  mat- 
ters that  she  invariably  took  her  own  in  anything  that 
counted.  It  is  a  simple  recipe  and  recommended  to 
anyone  with  Aunts.  .  .  . 

"There's  Potter's  wood!"  said  Benis,  who  had  been 
somewhat  silent. 

Desire  looked  '  out  eagerly.  But  Potter's  wood  was 
just  like  any  other  wood  and 

"There's  Sadler's  Pond!"  said  John. 

"They've  cut  down  the  old  elm!"  Atmt  Caroline 
voiced  deep  displeasure. 

"And  put  up  a  bill-board,"  said  Benis. 

Desire  felt  a  trifle  lonely.  These  people,  so  close  to 
her  and  yet  so  far  away,  were  going  home. 

"Oh,  how  I  wish  you  weren't  stopping  off,"  said  the 
rancher's  wife,  an  actual  tear  on  her  flushed  cheek. 
"You've  been  so  kind,  Mrs.  Spence.  And  anyone  more 
understanding  with  children  I  never  saw.  When  you've 
got  a  boy  like  my  Sandy  for  your  own " 

"By  jove!"  exclaimed  Benis.  "They're  starting  to  cut 
down  Miller's  hill  at  last." 

Aunt  Caroline  rose  flutteringly.  "There  is  the  water- 
tank,"    she   announced   in   an   agitated   voice.     "Desire, 


154  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

where  is  your  parasol?  My  dear,  don't  kiss  that  child 
again,  it's  sticky.  Where  is  my  hand-bag?  John,  do 
you  see  your  car?" 

"I  don't  see  it,"  admitted  John,  ''but " 

"Bainbridge !"  shouted  the  brakeman. 


XIX 

T^ESIRE  was  conscious  of  a  brown  and  gabled  station 
-*-^  with  a  bow-window  and  flower-beds,  a  long  plat- 
form where  baggage  trucks  lumbered,  the  calling  of  taxi- 
men,  a  confused  noise  of  greeting  and  farewell,  and 
Aunt  Caroline's  voice  uncomfortably  near  her  ear. 

"There  she  is!"  whispered  Aunt  Caroline  hoarsely. 
"Be  careful!     Don't  look!" 

"Who?     Where?"  asked  Desire,  wondering. 

"Eliza  Merryweather.     Second  to  the  left." 

There  was  another  confused  impression  of  curious 
faces,  of  one  face  especially  with  eager  eyes  and  bobbing 
grey  curls,  and  then  she  was  caught,  as  it  were,  in  the 
swirl  of  Aunt  Caroline  and  deposited,  somewhat  breath- 
less, in  a  car  which,  providentially,  seemed  to  expect 
her. 

Miss  Campion  was  breathing  heavily  but  her  face 
was  calm. 

"She  nearly  got  it,"  she  said.     "But  not  quite." 

"Got  what  ?"  asked  Desire,  still  wondering. 

"An  introduction.  Where  is  Benis?  My  dear,  don't 
look!     She  is  the  most  determined  person." 

Miss  Campion  herself  was  staring  straight  ahead.  De- 
sire, much  amused,  endeavored  to  do  the  same. 

"Surely  it  is  a  trifle!"  she  murmured. 

But  Miss  Campion  was  preoccupied.  "Where  can 
Benis  be?  John,  do  you  know  what  is  keeping  Benis? 
Oh,  here  he  is,"  with  an  exclamation  of  relief.  "Now 
we  can  start.  Did  I  hear  you  say  'trifle,'  my  dear? 
There  are  no  trifles  in  Bainbridge.  John,  I  think  we 
might  drive  home  by  the  Park." 

155 


156  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

They  drove  home  by  the  Park.  It  was  not  a  long 
drive,  just  a  dozen  or  so  of  quiet  streets,  sentineled  by 
maples;  a  factory  in  a  hollow;  a  church  upon  a  hill;  a 
glimpse  of  two  long  rows  of  prosperous  looking  business 
blocks  facing  each  other  across  an  asphalted  pavement; 
a  white  brick  school  where  children  shouted;  then  quiet 
streets  again,  the  leisurely  rising  of  a  boulevarded  slope 
and — home. 

They  turned  in  at  a  white  gate  in  the  centre  of  a  long 
fence  backed  by  trees.  The  Spences  had  built  their 
homestead  in  days  when  land  was  plentiful  and,  being 
a  liberal-minded  race,  they  had  taken  of  it  what  they 
would.  Of  all  the  houses  in  Bainbridge  theirs  alone  was 
prodigal  of  space.  It  stood  aloof  in  its  own  grounds,  its 
face  turned  negligently  from  the  street,  outside.  For 
the  passer-by  it  had  no  welcome ;  it  kept  itself,  its  flowers 
and  its  charm,  for  its  own  people. 

Desire  said  "Oh,"  as  she  saw  it — long  and  white,  with 
green  shutters  and  deep  verandas  and  wide,  unhurried 
steps.  She  had  seen  many  beautiful  homes  but  she  had 
never  seen  "home"  before.  The  beauty  and  the  peace  of 
it  caught  the  breath  in  her  throat.  She  was  glad  that 
Benis  did  not  speak  as  he  gave  her  his  hand  from  the 
car.  She  was  glad  for  the  volubility  of  Aunt  Caroline 
and  for  the  preoccupation  of  Dr.  John  with  his  engine. 
She  was  glad  that  she  and  Benis  stepped  into  the  cool, 
dim  hall  alone.  In  the  dimness  she  could  just  see  the 
little,  nervous  smile  upon  his  lips  and  the  warm  and 
kindly  look  in  his  steady  eyes. 

After  that  first  moment,  the  picture  blurred  a  little 
with  the  bustle  of  arrival.  Aunt  Caroline,  large  and 
light  in  her  cream  dust-coat,  seemed  everywhere.  The 
dimness  fled  before  her  and  rooms  and  stairs  and  a  white- 
capped  maid  emerged.  The  rooms  confused  Desire, 
there  were  so  many  of  them  and  all  with  such  a  strong 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  157 

family  likeness  of  dark  furniture  and  chintz.  Aunt 
Caroline  called  them  by  their  names  and,  throwing  open 
their  doors,  announced  them  in  prideful  tones.  Desire 
felt  very  diffident,  they  were  such  exclusive  rooms,  so 
old  and  settled  amd  sure  of  themselves — and  she  was 
so  new.  They  might,  she  felt,  cold-shoulder  her  en- 
tirely.    It  was  touch  and  go. 

All  but  one  room ! 

'This,"  said  her  conductor,  throwing  open  a  door, 
''is  where  Benis  does  his  work.  He  calls  it  his  den.  But 
you  will  agree  that  library  sounds  better." 

Desire  went  in — with  the  other  rooms  she  had  been 
content  to  stand  in  the  doors — and,  as  she  entered,  the 
room  seemed  to  draw  round  and  welcome  her.  It  was 
deeply  and  happily  familiar — that  shallow,  rounded  win- 
dow from  which  one  could  lean  and  touch  the  grass  out- 
side, that  dark,  old  desk  with  its  leather  and  brass,  that 
blue  bowl  on  the  corner  of  the  mantel-piece,  the  lazy, 
yet  expectant,  chairs;  even  the  beech  tree  whose  light 
fingers  tapped  upon  the  window  glass!  It  was  all  part 
of  her  life,  past  or  future — somewhere. 

"You  see,"  said  Aunt  Caroline  in  her  character  of 
showman,  "we  have  fireplaces!" 

Desire  was  so  used  to  fireplaces  that  this  did  not  seem 
extraordinary  and  yet,  from  Aimt  Caroline's  tone,  she 
knew  that  it  must  be,  and  tried  to  look  impressed. 

"They  are  dirty,"  went  on  Aunt  Caroline,  "but  they 
are  worth  it.  They  give  atmosphere.  If  you  have  a 
house  like  this,  you  have  to  have  fireplaces.  That  is  what 
I  tell  my  maids  when  I  engage  them.  So  that  they 
cannot  grumble  afterwards.  Fireplaces  are  dirty,  I  tell 
them,  but — what  are  you  staring  at,  my  dear  ?" 

"Was  I  staring?  I  didn't  know.  It  is  just  that  I  seem 
to  know  it  all." 

Aunt  Caroline  looked  wise.     "Oh,  yes.     I  know  what 


158  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

you  mean.  Benis  explains  that  curious  feeling — some- 
thing about  your  right  sphere  or  something  being  larger 
than  your  left,  or  quicker,  I  forget  which.  Not  that  I 
can  see  any  sense  in  it,  anyway.  Do  you  mind  if  I  leave 
you  here?  I  want  to  see  if  Olive  has  made  the  changes 
I  ordered  upstairs." 

''Get  a  hump  on !"  said  a  loud,  rude  voice. 

Aunt  Caroline  jumped. 

*'0h,  my  dear!  It's  that  horrible  parrot.  Benis  in- 
sists on  keeping  it.  Some  soldier  friend  of  his  left  it 
to  him.  A  really  terrible  bird.  And  its  language  is 
disgraceful.  It  doesn't  know  anything  but  slang.  Not 
even  Tolly  wants  a  cracker.'  You'll  hardly  believe  me, 
but  it  says,  'Gimme  the  eats!'  instead." 

"Can  it!"  said  the  parrot.     Aunt  Caroline  fled. 

Desire,  to  whom  a  talking  bird  was  a  delightful  nov- 
elty, went  over  to  the  large  cage  where  a  beautiful  green 
and  yellow  parrot  swung  mournfully,  head  down. 

"Pretty  Polly,"  said  Desire  timidly. 

The  bird  made  a  chuckling  noise  in  his  throat  like  a 
derisive  goblin. 

"What  is  your  name,  Polly?" 

"Yorick,"  said  Polly  tmexpectedly.  "Alas.  Poor 
Yorick!     I  knew  him  well." 

"You'd  think  it  knew  what  I  said!"  thought  Desire 
with  a  start.  She  edged  away  and  once  more  the  wel- 
coming spirit  of  the  room  rose  up  to  meet  her.  She 
tried  first  one  chair  and  then  another,  fingered  the  leather 
on  their  backs  and  finally  settled  on  the  light,  straight  one 
in  the  round  window.  It  was  as  familiar  as  the  glove 
upon  her  hand,  and  the  view  from  the  window — well, 
the  view  from  the  window  was  partially  blocked  by  the 
professor  under  the  beech  tree,  smoking. 

Seeing  her,  he  discarded  his  cigar  and  came  nearer, 
leaning  on  the  sill  of  the  opened  window. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  159 

"You  haven't  got  your  hat  off  yet,"  he  said  in  a  dis- 
contented tone.     "Aren't  you  going  to  stay?" 

"May  not  a  lady  wear  her  hat  in  her  own  house?" 

"Oh,  I  see.  Then  I  shan't  have  to  butter  your  fin- 
gers?" 

"Do  you  compare  me  to  a  stray  cat?" 

"I  never  compare  you  to  anything." 

Desire  wanted  terribly  to  ask  why,  but  an  unaccus- 
tomed shyness  prevented  her.  Instead  she  asked  if 
Yorick  were  really  the  parrot's  name. 

"I  don't  know.  But  he  says  it  is,  so  I  take  his  word 
for  it.  Do  you  want  to  talk  about  parrots?  Because 
it's  not  one  of  my  best  subjects.     May  I  change  it?" 

"If  you  Hke." 

"Don't  say,  *If  you  like,*  say  'Right-o.*  I  always  do 
when  I  think  of  it.  Since  the  war  it  is  expected  of  one — 
a  sign  of  this  new  fraternity,  you  know,  between  Eng- 
lishmen and  Colonials.  Everyone  over  there  is  expected 
to  say  T  guess'  for  the  same  reason.  Only  they  don't 
do  it.     How  do  you  like  your  workroom?" 

"Mine?" 

"I  thought  you  might  not  like  me  to  say  'Ours/  " 

"Don't  be  silly!" 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  it,  anyway?" 

Desire's  eyes  met  his  for  an  instant  and  then  fell 
quickly.  But  not  before  he  had  seen  a  mistiness  which 
looked  remarkably  lik&— Good  heavens,  he  might  have 
known  that  she  would  be  tired  and  upset ! 

"You  have  noticed,  of  course,"  he  went  on  lightly, 
"that  we  have  fireplaces  ?  They  are  very  dirty  but  they 
provide  atmosphere.  Ahnost  too  much  atmosphere 
sometimes.  There  are  no  dampers  and  when  the  wind 
blows  the  wrong  way— Oh,  my  dear  child,  do  cry  if  you 
really  feel  like  it." 

"Cry!"  indignantly.     "I  n — never  cry." 


i6o  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

**Well,  try  it  for  a  change.  I  believe  it  is  strongly 
recommended  and — don't  go  away.     Please." 

"I  had  no  idea  I  was  going  to  be  silly,"  said  Desire 
after  a  moment,  in  an  annoyed  voice. 

''It  usually  comes  unexpectedly.  Probably  you  are 
tired." 

Desire  wiped  her  eyes  with  businesslike  thoroughness. 

"No.  I'm  not.  I'm  suppressed.  Do  you  remember 
what  you  said  about  suppressed  emotion  the  other  day? 
Well,  I'm  like  that,  and  it's  your  fault.  You  bring  me 
to  this  beautiful  home  and  you  never,  never  once,  allow 
me  to  thank  you  properly — oh,  I'm  not  going  to  do 
it,  so  don't  look  frightened.  But  one  feels  so  safe  here. 
Benis,  it's  years  and  years  since  I  felt  just  safe" 

"I  know.     I  swear  every  time  I  think  of  it." 

'Then  you  can  guess  a  little  of  what  it  means?" 

Their  hands   were  very  close  upon  the   window-sill. 

"As  a  psychologist "  began  the  professor. 

"Oh — No!''  murmured  Desire. 

Their  hands  almost  touched. 

And  just  at  that  moment  Aunt  Caroline  came  in. 

"Are  you  there,  Benis?"  asked  Aunt  Caroline  unnec- 
essarily. "I  wish  you  would  come  in  and  take — oh,  I 
did  not  mean  you  to  come  in  through  the  w^indow.  If 
Olive  saw  you!  But  a  Spence  has  no  idea  of  dignity. 
Now  that  you  are  in,  I  wish  you  would  take  Desire  up 
to  your  room.  I  wired  Olive  to  prepare  the  west  room. 
It  is  grey  and  pink,  so  nice  for  Desire  who  is  somewhat 
pale.  The  bed  is  very  comfortable,  too,  and  large.  But, 
of  course,  if  you  prefer  any  other  room  you  will  change. 
Desire,  my  dear,  it  is  your  home,  I  do  not  forget  that. 
I  have  had  your  bags  carried  up.  Benis  can  manage  his 
own." 

If  Desire  were  pale  naturally,  she  was  more  than  pale 
now.     Her  frightened  eyes   fluttered  to  her  husband's 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  161 

face  and  fluttered  away  again.  Why  had  she  never 
tlioiight  of  this!  Sheer  panic  held  her  quiet  in  the 
straight-backed  chair. 

But  Spence,  without  seeming  to  notice,  had  seen  and 
understood  her  startled  eyes. 

"Thanks,  Aunt,"  he  said  cheerfully.  ''Of  course  De- 
sire must  make  her  own  choice.  But  if  she  takes  my 
tip  she  will  stay  where  you've  put  her.  It's  a  jolly  room. 
As  for  me,  I'm  going  up  to  my  old  diggings — thought 
I'd  told  you." 

"What!" 

Aunt  Caroline's  remark  was  not  a  question.  It  was 
an  explosion. 

Spence  dropped  his  bantering  manner. 

"My  dear  Aunt.  I  hate  to  disturb  your  arrangements 
with  my  eccentricities.  But  insomnia  is  a  hard  mas- 
ter. I  must  sleep  in  my  old  room.  We'll  consider  that 
settled." 

"Humph!"  said  Aunt  Caroline. 

Like  the  house,  she  was  somewhat  old  fashioned. 


XX 

npEA  had  been  laid  on  the  west  lawn  under  the  maples. 
-■-  Possibly  some  time  in  the  past  the  Spences  had  been 
a  leisured  people.  They  had  brought  from  the  old  coun- 
try the  tradition  of  afternoon  tea.  Many  others  had, 
no  doubt,  done  the  same  but  with  these  others  the  tra- 
dition had  not  persisted.  In  the  more  crowded  life  of 
a  new  country  they  had  let  it  go.  The  Spences  had  not 
let  it  go.  It  wasn't  their  way.  And  in  time  it  had  as- 
sumed the  importance  of  a  survival.  It  stood  for  some- 
thing. Other  Bainbridgers  had  *Teas."  The  Spences 
had  "tea." 

Desire  had  been  in  her  new  home  a  month  and  had 
just  made  a  remark  which  showed  her  astonished  Aunt 
Caroline  that  tea  w^as  no  more  of  a  surprise  to  her  than 
fireplaces  had  been. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  have  always  had  tea?" 
Miss  Campion  ceased  from  pouring  in  pure  surprise. 

*'Why,  yes."  Desire's  surprise  was  even  greater  than 
Aunt  Caroline's.  'Ti  Ho  never  dreamed  of  forgetting 
tea.  He  served  it  much  more  regularly  than  dinner  be- 
cause sometimes  there  w^asn't  any  dinner  to  serve.  It 
was  a  great  comfort — the  tea,  I  mean." 

**But  how  extraordinary!     And  a  Chinaman,  too." 

*T  suppose  my  mother  trained  him." 

''And  Vancouver  isn't  Bainbridge,"  put  in  Benis  lazily. 
"A  great  many  people  there  are  more  English  than  they 
are  in  England.  All  the  old-time  Chinese  'boys'  served 
tea  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"Even  when  no  one  was  calling?" 

"Absolutely  sans  callers  of  any  kind." 

i6a 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  163 

**Well,  I  am  sure  that  is  very  nice."  But  it  was  plain 
from  Aunt  Caroline's  tone  that  she  thought  it  a  highly 
impertinent  infringement  upon  the  privileges  of  a  Spence. 
She  poured  her  nephew's  cup  in  aloof  silence  and  re- 
freshed herself  with  a  second  before  re-entering  the  con- 
versation. When  she  did,  it  was  with  something  of  a 
bounce. 

'"Benis,"  she  said  abruptly,  "can  you  tell  me  just  ex- 
actly what  is  a  Primitive?" 

*'Eh?"  The  professor  had  been  trying  to  read  the 
afternoon  Nezvs-Telegram  and  sip  tea  at  the  same  time. 

Aunt  Caroline  repeated  her  question. 

"Certainly,"  said  Spence.  "That  is  to  say,  I  can  be 
fairly  exact.  Would  you  like  me  to  begin  now?  If 
you  have  nothing  to  do  until  dinner  I  can  get  you  nicely 
started.    And  there  is  a  course  of  reading " 

Aunt  Caroline  stopped  him  with  dignity.  "Thank 
you,  Benis.  I  infer  that  the  subject  is  a  complicated  one. 
Therefore  I  will  word  my  question  more  simply.  Would 
an  Indian,  for  instance,  be  considered  a  Primitive?" 

"Um — some  Indians  might." 

"Oh,"  thoughtfully,  "then  I  suppose  that  is  what  Mrs. 
Stopford  Brown  meant." 

Her  delighted  listeners  exchanged  an  appreciative 
glance. 

"Very  probably,"  said  Benis,  with  tact,  "were  you 
discussing  Primitives  at  the  Club?" 

"No.  Though  it  might  be  rather  a  good  idea,  don't 
you  think?  If,  as  you  say,  there  is  a  course  of  reading, 
it  would  be  sufficieijtly  literary,  I  suppose?  At  present 
we  are  taking  up  psycho-analysis — dreams,  you  know. 
It  was  not  my  choice.  As  a  subject  for  club  study  I  con- 
sider it  too  modem.  Besides,  I  seldom  dream.  And 
when  I  do,  my  dreams  are  not  remarkable.  However,  it 
seems  that  all  dreams  are  remarkable.     And  I  admit  that 


i64  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

there  may  be  something  in  it.  Take,  for  instance,  a 
dream  which  I  had  the  other  night.  I  dreamed  that  I 
was  endeavoring  to  do  my  hair  and  every  time  I  put  my 
hand  on  a  hairpin  that  horrible  parrot  of  yours  snapped 
it  up  and  swallowed  it.  Now,  according  to  psycho- 
analysis, that  dream  has  a  meaning.  Understood  rightly 
it  discloses  that  I  have,  in  my  waking  moments,  a  re- 
pressed feeling  of  intense  dislike  for  that  hateful  bird. 
And  it  is  quite  true.  I  have.  So  you  can  see  how  use- 
ful that  kind  of  thing  might  be  in  getting  at  the  truth 
in  cases  of  murder.  I  hope,"  turning  to  Desire,  'T  hope 
I  am  not  being  too  scientific  for  you,  my  dear?  When 
the  ladies  feel  that  they  know  you  better  you  may  per- 
haps join  our  club,  if  you  care  for  anything  so  serious? 
May  I  give  you  more  tea?" 

"Thanks,  yes.     That  would  be  delightful." 

*'Not  so  delightful,  my  dear,  as  educative.  But  as  I 
was  saying,  Benis,  it  is  all  your  fault  that  this  miscon- 
ception has  got  about.  I  blame  you  very  much  in  the 
matter.  It  comes  naturally  from  your  writing  so  con- 
tinually about  Indians  and  foreigners  and  Primitives  gen- 
erally. People  come  to  associate  you  with  them.  Still, 
I  think  it  was  extremely  rude  of  Mrs.  Stopford  Brown 
to  say  it." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Spence,  with  conviction. 

"I  asked  Mrs.  Everett,  who  told  me,  if  anyone  else 
had  made  remarks  leading  up  to  it.  But  she  says  not 
a  word.  It  was  just  that  Mrs.  Everett  said  that  it  was 
strange  that  when  you  had  taken  so  long  to  consider  mar- 
riage you  should  have  made  up  your  mind  so  quickly 
in  the  end — 'Gone  off  like  a  sky-rocket!'  was  her  exact 
wording,  and  Mrs.  Stopford  Brown  said,  in  that  frivolous 
way  she  has,  'Oh,  I  suppose  he  stumbled  across  a  Primi- 
tive.' You  will  notice,  Desire,  that  Mrs.  Stopford 
Brown's  name  is  not  upon  the  list  for  your  reception." 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  165 

*'But "  began  Desire,  controlling  her  face  with  dif- 
ficulty. 

"No  *buts,'  my  dear.  It  may  seem  severe,  but  Mrs. 
Stopford  Brown  is  quite  too  careless  in  her  general  con- 
versation. It  is  true  that  her  remark  is  directly  trace- 
able to  my  nephew's  unfortunate  writings,  but  she  should 
have  investigated  her  facts  before  speaking.  The  result 
is  that  it  is  all  over  town  that  you  have  Indian  blood. 
They  say  that,  out  there,  almost  everyone  married  squaws 
once  and  that  is  why  there  is  no  dower  law  in  British 
Columbia.  Those  selfish  people  did  not  wish  their  In- 
dian wives  to  wear  the  family  jewels.  Benis !  You  will 
break  that  cup  if  you  balance  it  so  carelessly.  What  I 
want  to  know  is,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"Not  being  a  resident  of  British  Columbia,  I  cannot 
do  anything,  Aunt.  But  I  think  you  will  find  that  since 
women  got  the  vote  the  matter  has  been  adjusted." 

"I  do  not  understand  you.  What  possible  connection 
has  the  women's  vote  with  Mrs.  Stopford  Brown?" 

*T  thought  you  were  speaking  of  dower  laws.  As  for 
Mrs.  Brown,  haven't  you  already  fitted  the  punishment 
to  the  crime?" 

"Then  you  will  not  officially  contradict  the  rumor?" 

"Dear  Aunt,  I  am  not  an  official.  And  a  rumor  is  of 
no  importance— until  it  is  contradicted.  Surely  you  are 
letting  yourself  get  excited  about  nothing." 

Aunt  Caroline  bestowed  upon  Desire  the  feminine 
glance  which  means,  "What  fools  men  are." 

"That's  all  very  well  now,''  she  said.  "But  it  is  in- 
credible how  rumor  persists.  And  when  you  are  a  father 
— there!     I  knew  you  would  end  by  breaking  that  cup." 

"Aren't  we  being  rather  absurd?"  asked  Desire  a  little 
later  when  Aunt  Caroline  and  the  tea  tray  had  departed 
together.     "Besides,  you  can't  break  a  cup  every  time." 


i66  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


Spence  sighed.  It  was  undoubtedly  true  that  cups 
do  come  to  an  end. 

"What  we  want  to  do,"  said  Desire,  angry  at  her 
heightened  color,  "is  to  be  sensible." 

"That's  what  Aunt  CaroHne  is.  Do  you  want  us  to 
be  Hke  Aunt  Caroline?" 

"I  want  us  to  face  facts  without  blushing  and  jump- 
ing." 

"I  never  blush.*' 

"You  jump." 

"Sorry.  But  give  me  time.  I  am  new  at  this  yet. 
Presently  I  shall  be  able  to  listen  to  Aunt  describing  my 
feelings  as  a  grandfather  without  a  quiver.    Poor  Aunt  I" 

"Why  do  you  say  'poor  Aunt'  ?" 

"It  is  going  to  be  rather  a  blow  to  her,  you  know." 

"Do  you  think  we  ought  to — tell  her?" 

"Good  heavens,  no!" 

"But  it  seems  so  mean  to  let  her  go  on  believing 
things." 

"Not  half  so  mean  as  taking  the  belief  from  her.  Be- 
sides  "     He  paused  and  Desire  felt  herself  clutch, 

unaccountably,  at  the  arm  of  her  garden  chair. 

"She  wouldn't  understand,"  finished  Benis. 

Desire's  grasp  upon  the  chair  relaxed. 

"Life  is  like  that,"  he  went  on  slowly.  "No  matter 
how  careful  people  are  there  is  always  someone  who 
slips  in  and  gets  hurt.  Our  affairs  are  strictly  our  own 
affairs  and  yet — we  stumble  over  Aunt  Caroline  and 
leave  her  indignant  and  disappointed  and  probably  blam- 
ing Providence  for  the  whole  affair.  It  is  just  a  curious 
instance  of  the  intricacy  of  human  relationships — ^you're 
not  going  in,  are  you?" 

"There  is  some  typing  I  want  to  finish,"  said  Desire. 
"I  have  been  letting  myself  get  shamefully  behind." 


XXI 

THE  weather  on  the  day  of  Desire's  reception  could 
scarcely  have  been  bettered.  Rain  had  fallen  dur- 
ing the  night;  fallen  just  sufficiently  to  lay  the  dust  on 
the  drive  and  lil^erate  all  the  thousand  flower  scents  in 
the  drowsy  garden.  It  was  hot  enough  for  the  most 
summery  dresses  and  cool  enough  for  a  summer  fur. 
What  more  could  be  desired  ? 

Bainbridge  was  expectant.  It  was  known  that  Miss 
Campion  was  excelling  herself  in  honor  of  her  nephew's 
bride,  and  the  bride  herself  was  alluringly  rumored  to 
be  a  personality.  It  is  doubtful  if  anyone  really  believed 
the  ''part  Indian"  suggestion,  but  there  were  those  who 
liked  to  dally  with  it.  Its  possibility  was  a  taste  of  lemon 
on  a  cloyed  tongue. 

"They  say  she  is  part  Indian — fancy,  a  Spence !" 
''Nonsense.     I  asked  Dr.  Rogers  about  it  and  he  made 
me  feel  pretty  foolish.     The  truth  is — her  parents  are 
both  English.    The  father  is  a  doctor,  at  one  time  a  most 
celebrated  physician  in  London." 

"Physicians  who  are  celebrated  in  London  usually  stay 
there." 

"And  I  am  sure  she  is  dark  enough." 
"Not  with  that  skin !     And  her  eyes  are  grey." 
"Oh,  I  admit  she's  pretty — if  you  like  that  style.     I 
wonder  where  she  gets  her  clothes?" 

"Where  they  know  how  to  make  them,  anyway.  Did 
you  notice  that  smoke  colored  georgette  she  wore  on 
Sunday?  Not  a  scrap  of  rehef  anywhere.  Not  even 
around  the  neck." 

"It's  the  latest.     I  went  right  home  and  ripped  the 

167 


i68  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

lace  off  mine.  But  it  made  me  look  like  a  skinned  rab- 
bit, so  I  put  it  back.  I  don't  see  why  fashions  are  always 
made  for  sweet  and  twenty!" 

"Twenty?  She's  twenty-five  if  she's  a  day.  For  my- 
self I  can't  say  that  I  like  to  see  young  people  so  sure 
of  themselves.     A  bride,  too!" 

''They  say  Mrs.  Stopford  Brown  hasn't  had  a  card 
for  the  reception." 

*'Did  she  tell  you  so?" 

*'Oh,  no !  But  she  let  it  drop  that  she  thought  it  was 
on  the  seventh  instead  of  the  eighth." 

''How  funny!  Serv^e  her  right.  It's  about  time  she 
knew  she  isn't  quite  everybody.  .  .  ." 

Desire,  herself,  was  unperturbed.  To  her  direct  and 
unself -conscious  mind  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should 
excite  herself.  These  people,  to  whom  she  was  so  new, 
were  equally  new  to  her.  The  interest  might  be  expected 
to  be  mutual.  Any  picture  of  herself  as  affected  by  their 
personal  opinions  had  not  obtruded  itself.  She  was  pre- 
pared to  like  them;  hoped  they  would  like  her,  but  was 
not  actively  concerned  with  whether  they  did  or  not.  She 
had  lived  too  far  away  from  her  kind  to  feel  the  impact 
of  their  social  aura.  Besides,  she  had  other  things  to 
think  about. 

First  of  all,  there  was  Mary.  She  found  that  she  had 
to  think  about  Mary  a  great  deal.  She  did  not  want 
to,  but  there  seemed  to  be  a  compulsion.  This  may  have 
been  partly  owing  to  a  change  of  mind  with  regard  to 
Mary  as  a  subject  for  conversation.  She  had  decided 
that  it  was  not  good  for  Benis  to  talk  about  Her.  Why 
revive  memories  that  are  best  forgotten?  She  never 
now  disturbed  him  when  he  gazed  into  the  sunset;  and 
when  he  sighed,  as  he  sometimes  did  without  reason,  she 
did  not  ask  him  why.     She  had  even  felt  impatient  once 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  169 

or  twice  and,  upon  leaving  the  room  abruptly,  had  banged 
the  door. 

So,  because  Mary  was  unavailable  for  discussion,  De- 
sire had  to  think  about  her.  She  had  to  wonder  whether 
her  hair  was  really  ?  And  whether  her  eyes  really  were  ? 
She  wanted  to  know.  If  she  could  find  someone  who 
had  known  Mary,  some  entirely  unprejudiced  person 
who  would  tell  her,  she  might  be  able  to  dismiss  the  sub- 
ject from  her  mind.  And  surely,  in  Bainbridge,  there 
must  be  someone? 

But  she  had  been  in  Bainbridge  a  month  now.  Peo- 
ple had  called.  And  she  was  still  as  ignorant  as 
ever.  She  had  been  so  sure  that  someone  would  men- 
tion Mary  almost  at  once.  She  had  felt  that  people 
would  simply  not  be  able  to  refrain  from  hinting  to  the 
bride  a  knowledge  of  her  husband's  unhappy  past.  There 
were  so  many  ways  in  which  it  might  be  done.  Some- 
one might  say,  ''When  I  heard  that  Professor  Spence 
was  married,  I  felt  sure  that  the  bride  would  have  dark 
hair  because — oh,  what  am  I  saying !  Please,  may  I  have 
more  tea?" 

But  no  one,  not  even  the  giddiest  flapper  of  them  all, 
had  said  even  that!  Perhaps,  incredible  as  it  might 
seem,  Bainbridge  did  not  know  about  Mary?  She  had 
been,  Desire  remembered,  a  visitor  there  when  Benis 
met  her.  Perhaps  her  stay  had  been  brief.  Perhaps 
the  ill-fated  courtship  had  taken  place  elsewhere?  Even 
then,  it  seemed  almost  unbelievably  stupid  of  Bainbridge 
not  to  have  known  something.  But  of  course,  she  had 
not  met  nearly  everj^body.  This  fact  lent  excitement  to 
the  idea  of  the  reception.  Something  might  be  said  at 
any  moment. 

If  not — there  was  still  John.  John  must  know.  A 
man  does  not  keep  the  news  of  a  serious  love  affair  from 
his  best  friend.     Some  day,  when  John  knew  her  well 


170  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


enough,  he  might  speak,  delicately,  of  that  lost  romance. 
Yes.     She  would  have  to  cultivate  John. 

Luckily,  John  was  easily  cultivated.  He  had  been 
quite  charming  to  her  from  the  very  first.  He  thought 
of  her  comfort  continually,  almost  too  continually — but 
that,  no  doubt,  was  medical  fussiness.  He  insisted,  for 
instance,  upon  putting  wraps  about  her  shoulders  after 
dewfall  and  refused  to  believe  that  she  never  caught 
cold.  Only  last  night  he  had  left  early  saying  that  she 
must  get  her  beauty  sleep  so  as  to  be  fresh  for  the  re- 
ception. 

*'One  would  think,"  she  had  said,  sauntering  with  him 
to  the  gate,  *'that  the  guests  might  decide  to  eat  me  in- 
stead of  the  ices.  Why  do  you  all  expect  me  to  quake 
and  shiver  ?  They  can't  really  do  anything  to  me,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

''Do?"  The  doctor  was  absent-minded.  "Do?  Oh, 
they  can  do  things  all  right.  But,"  with  quite  unnec- 
essary emphasis,  "their  worst  efforts  won't  be  a  patch 
on  the  things  you  will  do  to  them.  Why,  you'll  add  ten 
years  to  the  age  of  everyone  over  twenty  and  make  the 
others  feel  like  babes  in  arms.  You'll  raise  all  their 
vibrations  to  boiling  point  and  remain  yourself  as  cool 
and  pulseless  as — as  you  are  now." 

Desire  was  surprised,  but  she  was  reasonable. 

"If  you  can  tell  me  why  my  vibrations  should  raise 
themselves,"  she  said,  "I  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

The  doctor  had  gone  home  gloomily. 

"He  is  really  very  moody,  for  a  doctor,"  thought  De- 
sire, as  she  sauntered  back  through  the  dusk.  "It  seems 
to  me  that  he  needs  cheering  up." 

Then  she  probably  forgot  him,  for  certainly  no  thought 
of  his  gloominess  disturbed  her  beauty  sleep.  A  fresher 
or  more  glowing  bride  had  never  gathered  flowers  for  her 
own  reception.    She  had  carried  them  into  all  the  rooms ; 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  171 

careless  for  once  of  their  cool  aloofness;  making  them 
welcome  her  whether  they  would  or  not.  Then,  as  the 
stir  of  preparation  ceased  and  the  house  sank  into  per- 
fumed quiet,  she  had  slipped  back  into  her  own  pink 
and  grey  room  for  a  breathing  space  before  it  was  time 
to  dress. 

At  Aunt  Caroline's  earnest  request  she  had  taken 
Yorick  with  her.  "For,"  said  Aunt  Caroline,  *T  refuse 
to  receive  guests  with  that  bird  within  hearing  distance. 
The  things  he  says  are  bad  enough  but  I  have  a  feel- 
ing that  he  knows  many  things  which  he  hasn't  said  yet. 
And  people  are  sensitive.  Only  the  other  day  when  old 
Mrs.  Burton  was  calling  him  Tretty  Pol,'  he  burst  into 
that  dreadful  laugh  of  his  and  told  her  to  'Shake  a  leg' ! 
How  the  creature  happened  to  know  about  the  scandal 
of  her  early  youth  I  can't  say.  But  it  is  quite  true  that 
she  did  dance  on  the  stage.  She  grew  quite  purple  when 
that  wretched  bird  threw  it  up  to  her." 

Desire  had  laughed  and  promised  to  sequestrate  Yorick 
for  the  afternoon.  He  had  taken  the  insult  badly  and 
was  now  muttering  protests  to  himself  with  throaty  noises 
which  exploded  occasionally  in  bursts  of  bitter  laughter. 

It  was  too  early  to  dress  for  another  hour  but  already 
the  dress  lay  ready  on  the  bed.  Desire  had  chosen  it 
with  care.  She  had  no  wedding-dress.  Bridal  white 
would  have  seemed — ^well,  dangerously  near  the  humor- 
ous. She  would  have  feared  that  half-smile  with  which 
Spence  was  wont  to  appreciate  life's  pleasantries.  But 
the  gown  upon  the  bed  was  the  last  word  in  smartness 
and  charm.  In  color  it  was  like  pale  sunlight  through 
green  water.  It  was  both  cool  and  bright.  Against  it, 
her  warm,  white  skin  glowed  warmer  and  whiter;  her 
leaf -brown  hair  showed  more  softly  brown.  Its  skirt 
was  daintily  short  and  beneath  it  would  show  green 
stockings  that  shimmered,  and  slippers  that  were  vanity. 


172  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

Desire  sat  in  the  window  seat  and  allowed  herself  to 
be  quite  happy.  "If  I  could  just  sit  here  forever,"  she 
mused.  ''If  someone  could  enchant  me,  just  as  I  am, 
with  the  sun  warm  on  the  tips  of  my  toes  and  this  little 
wind,  so  full  of  flowers,  cool  upon  my  face.  If  I  need 
never  again  hear  anything  save  the  drone  of  sleepy  bees, 
the  chirping  of  fat  robins  and  the  hum  of  a  lawn- 
mower " 

She  sat  up  suddenly.  Who  could  be  mowing  the  west 
lawn  in  the  heat  of  the  day?  Desire,  forgetting  about 
the  enchantment,  leaned  out  to  see.  Surely  it  couldn't 
be?  And  yet  it  certainly  was.  The  lawn-mower  man 
displayed  the  heated  countenance  of  the  bridegroom  him- 
self. 

"What  is  he  thinking  of  ?"  groaned  Desire.  ''He  will 
make  himself  a  rag — a  perfect  rag.  I  wonder  Aunt 
Caroline  allows  it." 

But  Aunt  Caroline  was  presumably  occupied  elsewhere. 
No  one  came  to  prevent  the  ragmaking  of  the  professor, 
and  Desire,  after  watching  for  a  moment,  raised  her 
finger  and  gave  the  little  searching  call  which  had  been 
their  way  of  finding  each  other  in  the  woods  at  Friendly 
Bay. 

The  professor  stopped  instantly,  leaving  the  lawn- 
mower  exactly  where  it  was,  in  the  middle  of  a  swath. 
With  an  answering  wave  he  crossed  to  the  west  room 
window  and,  with  an  ease  which  surprised  his  audi- 
ence, drew  his  long  slimness  up  the  pillar  of  the  porch 
and  clambered  over  the  railing  into  the  small  balcony. 

"I  can't  come  in  by  the  front  door,"  he  explained,  "on 
account  of  my  boots.  And  I  can't  come  in  by  the  back 
door  on  account  of  Extra  Help.  I  intended  getting  in 
eventually  by  the  cellarway,  but,  if  you  want  me,  that 
would  take  too  long.  Besides,  I  wanted  to  show  you 
how  neatly  I  can  shin  up  a  post." 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  173 

He  smiled  at  her  cheerfully.  He  was  damp  and 
flushed,  but  much  brisker  than  Desire  had  thought.  He 
did  not  look  at  all  raglike.  For  the  first  time  since  their 
homecoming  she  seemed  to  see  him  with  clear  eyes.  And 
she  found  him  changed.  He  was  younger.  Some  of 
the  lines  had  smoothed  out  of  his  forehead.  His  face 
showed  its  cheekbones  less  sharply  and  his  hair  dipped 
charmingly,  like  an  untidy  boy's.  His  shirt  was  open 
at  the  throat.  He  did  not  look  like  a  professor  at  all. 
Desire  momentarily  experienced  what  Dr.  John  had  called 
a  "heightening  of  vibration." 

* 'Anything  that  I  can  do,"  offered  he  helpfully. 

"The  best  thing  will  be  to  stop  doing,"  suggested  De- 
sire. "Don't  you  know  that  you're  accessory  to  a  re- 
ception this  afternoon?  Of  course  you  are  only  the 
host,  but  it  looks  better  to  have  the  host  unwilted." 

"Like  the  salad?  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  In  fact 
I'm  afraid  I  haven't  been  giving  the  matter  serious  at- 
tention. I  must  consult  my  secretary.  How  else  should 
a  host  look?" 

"He  should  look  happy." 

Benis  noted  this  on  his  cuff. 

"Yes?" 

Desire's  eyes  began  to  sparkle. 

"If  he  is  a  bridegroom,  as  well  as  a  host,  he  should 
be  careful  to  look  often  at  the  bride." 

"No  chance,"  said  Spence  gloomily.  "Not  with  the 
mob  that's  coming." 

"Above  all,  he  looks  after  his  least  attractive  lady 
guests.  And  he  never  on  any  account  slips  away  for  a 
smoke  with  a  stray  gentleman  friend." 

The  professor's  gloom  lightened.  "Is  there  going  to 
be  a  stray  gentleman  friend  ?     Did  old  Bones  promise  ?" 

Desire  nodded  triumphantly. 


174  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

"First  time  in  captivity,"  murmured  Spence.  "How 
on  earth  did  you  manage  it?" 

"I  simply  asked  him!" 

"As  easy  as  that?" 

They  both  laughed  as  happy  people  laugh  at  merest 
nonsense. 

"Ha!  Ha!  Ha!"  shrieked  Yorick.  "Go  to  it,  give 
'em  hell!" 

"I  don't  v^onder  Aunt  Caroline  dreads  him,"  said  De- 
sire.    "His  experience  seems  to  have  been  lurid." 

"Kiss  her,  you  flat-foot,  kiss  her,"  shrieked  the  ribald 
Yorick. 

"Sorry,  old  man,"  said  Spence  regretfully.  "It's 
against  the  rules  to  kiss  one's  secretary." 

Again  they  both  laughed.  But  was  it  fancy,  or  was 
this  laugh  a  trifle  less  spontaneous  than  the  other? 

"Gracious!"  said  Desire,  suddenly  in  a  hurry,  "I've 
hardly  left  myself  time  to  dress." 


XXII 

T  T  may  be  said  with  fairness  that  the  reception  given 
-^  by  Miss  Campion  for  her  nephew's  bride  left  Bain- 
bridge  thoughtful.  They  had  expected  the  bride  to  be 
different,  and  they  had  found  her  to  be  different  from 
what  they  had  expected.  They  could  not  place  her;  and, 
in  Bainbridge,  everyone  is  placed. 

*T  understood,"  said  Mrs.  T.  L.  Lawson,  whose  word 
in  intellectual  matters  was  final,  **that  young  Mrs.  Spence 
was  wholly  uneducated.  A  school  teacher  who  met  her 
on  the  train  told  my  dressmaker  that  she  had  heard  her 
admit  the  fact  with  her  own  lips.  So,  naturally,  not 
wishing  to  embarrass  a  newcomer,  I  confined  my  re- 
marks to  the  simplest  matters.  She  did  not  say  very 
much  but  I  must  confess — you  will  scarcely  believe  it — 
I  actually  got  the  impression  that  she  was  accommodat- 
ing her  conversation  to  me/' 

"Oh,  surely  not !"  from  a  shocked  chorus. 

"It  is  just  a  manner  she  affects,"  comforted  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton Holmes.  "Far,  far  too  assured,  in  my  opinion,  for 
a  young  bride.  I  hope  it  does  not  denote  a  certain  lack 
of  fine  feeling.  In  a  girl  who  had  been  brought  up  to 
an  assured  social  position,  such  a  manner  might  be  un- 
derstood. But — well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  I  heard  from 
my  friend  Marion  Walford  yesterday,  and  she  assured 
me  that  Mrs.  Spence  is  quite  unknown  in  Vancouver  so- 
ciety. But,  of  course,  dear  Marion  knows  only  the  very 
smartest  people.  For  myself  I  do  not  allow  these  dis- 
tinctions to  affect  me.  If  only  for  dear  Miss  Campion's 
sake  I  determined  to  be  perfectly  friendly.  But  I  felt 
that,  in  justice  to  everybody,  it  might  be  well  for  her 

175 


176  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

to  know  that  we  know.  So  I  asked  her,  casually,  if 
she  were  well  acquainted  with  the  Walfords.  At  first 
she  looked  as  if  she  had  never  heard  of  them,  and  then — 
*0h,  do  you  mean  the  soap  people?'  she  said.  'I  don't 
know  them — but  one  sees  their  bill-boards  everywhere.' 
It  was  almost  as  if " 

"Oh — absurd!"  echoed  the  chorus.  "Though  if  she 
is  really  English,"  ventured  one  of  them,  "she  might, 
you  know.     The  English  have  such  a  horror  of  trade." 

These  social  and  educational  puzzles  were  as  nothing 
to  the  religious  problem.  Bainbridge,  who  had  seen  De- 
sire more  or  less  regularly  at  church,  had  taken  for 
granted  that  in  this  respect,  at  least,  she  was  even  as  they 
were.  But,  after  the  reception,  Mrs.  Pennington  thought 
not. 

"I  felt  quite  worried  about  our  pretty  bride,"  said 
Mrs.  Pennington.  "You  know  how  we  all  hoped  that 
when  the  dear  professor  married  he  would  become  more 
orthodox.  Science  is  so  unsettling.  And  married  men 
so  often  do.     But "  she  sighed. 

"Surely  not  a  free  thinker?"  ventured  one  in  a  sub- 
dued whisper. 

"Or  a  Christian  Scientist?"  with  equal  horror. 

Mrs.  Pennington  intimated  that  she  had  not  yet  suf- 
ficient data  to  decide.  "But,"  she  added,  solemnly,  "she 
is  not  a  Presbyterian." 

"She  goes  to  church." 

"Yes.  She  was  quite  frank  about  that.  She  did  not 
scruple  to  say  that  she  goes  to  please  Miss  Campion  and 
because  *it  is  all  so  new.'  " 

"New?" 

"Exactly  what  I  said  to  her.  I  said,  'New  ?'  My  dear, 
what  you  do  mean — new  ?'  And  she  tipped  her  eyebrows 
in  that  oriental  way  she  has  and  said,  'Why,  just  new. 
I  have  never  been  to  church,  you  know!'  " 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  177 

*'0h,  impossible — in  this  country!'' 

"Yes,  imagine  it!  Perhaps  she  saw  my  disapproval 
for  she  added,  *We  had  a  prayer-book  in  the  house, 
though/     As  if  it  were  quite  the  same  thing." 

One  of  the  more  optimistic  members  of  the  chorus 
thought  that  this  might  show  some  connection  with  the 
Church  of  England.  But  Mrs.  Pennington  shook  her 
head. 

"Hardly,  I  think.  Her  language  was  not  such  as  to 
encourage  such  a  hope.  The  very  next  thing  she  said 
to  me  was,  *Don't  you  think  the  prayer-book  is  lovely?'  " 

"Oh!— not  really?" 

"I  admit  I  was  shocked.  I  am  not,"  said  Mrs.  Pen- 
nington, "a  Church  of  England  woman.  But  I  am 
broad-minded,  I  hope.  And  I  have  more  respect  for 
any  sacred  work  than  to  speak  of  it  as  'lovely/  In  fact, 
in  all  kindness,  I  must  say  that  I  fear  the  poor  child  is 
a  veritable  heathen." 

This  conclusion  was  felt  to  be  sound,  logically,  but 
without  great  practical  significance.  The  veritable 
heathen  persisted  in  church-going  to  such  an  extent  that 
she  tired  out  several  of  the  most  orthodox  and  it  was 
rumored  that  she  even  went  so  far  as  to  discuss  the  ser- 
mon afterward.  "Just  as  if,"  said  Mrs.  Pennington, 
"it  were  a  lecture  or  a  play  or  something." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Desire  was  intensely  interested  in 
sermons.  She  had  so  seldom  heard  any  that  the  weekly 
doling  out  of  truth  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  McClintock  had  all 
the  fascination  of  a  new  experience.  Mr.  McClintock 
was  of  the  type  which  does  not  falter  in  its  message.  He 
had  no  doubts.  He  had  thought  out  every  possible  spir- 
itual problem  as  a  young  man  and  had  seen  no  reason 
fo^  thinking  them  out  a  second  time.  What  he  had  ac- 
cepted at  twenty,  he  believed  at  sixty,  with  this  differ- 
ence that  while  at  twenty  some  of  his  conclusions  had 


178  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


caused  him  sleepless  nights,  at  sixty  they  were  accepted 
with  complacency.  No  questioning  pierced  the  hard 
enamel  of  his  assurance.  He  saw  no  second  side  to  any- 
thing because  he  never  turned  it  over.  He  had  a  way 
of  saying  ''I  believe"  which  was  absolutely  final. 

Desire  had  been  collecting  Mr.  McClintock's  beliefs 
carefully.  They  fascinated  her.  She  often  woke  up  in 
the  night  thinking  of  them,  wondering  at  their  strange 
diversity  and  speculating  as  to  the  ultimate  discovery  of 
some  missing  piece  which  might  make  them  all  fit  in.  It 
was  because  she  was  afraid  of  missing  this  master-bit 
that  she  went  to  church  so  regularly. 

The  Sunday  after  the  reception  was  exceptionally  hot. 
It  was  exceptionally  dusty  too,  for  Bainbridge  tolerated 
no  water  carts  on  Sunday.  It  was  one  of  those  Sundays 
when  people  have  headaches.  Aunt  Caroline  had  a  head- 
ache. She  felt  that  it  would  be  most  unwise  to  venture 
out  She  even  suggested  that,  no  doubt,  Desire  had  a 
headache,  too. 

*'But  I  haven't,"  said  that  downright  young  person, 
looking  provokingly  cool  and  energetic.  Her  husband 
groaned. 

''Don't  look  at  me,"  he  said  hastily.  "My  excuse  is 
not  hallowed  by  antiquity  like  Aunt's  but  it  is  equally  ef- 
fective. I  have  to  go  down  to  the  cellar  to  make  ice- 
cream." 

This,  as  Desire  knew,  was  perfectly  legitimate.  No 
ice-cream  of  any  kind  could  be  bought  in  Bainbridge  on 
Sunday.  Therefore  a  certain  proportion  of  the  popula- 
tion had  to  descend  into  its  cellars  and  make  it.  It  was 
even  possible  to  tell,  if  one  were  curious,  how  many  fami- 
lies were  going  to  have  ice-cream  for  dinner  by  count- 
ing the  empty  seats  at  morning  service.  Nearly  all  of 
the  more  prominent  families  owned  freezers  while  many 
of  those  who  were  f  reezerless  did  not  go  to  church,  any- 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  179 

way.  From  which  it  would  seem  that,  in  Bainbridge  at 
least,  the  righteous  had  prospered. 

On  this  hot  morning,  therefore.  Desire  collected  Mr. 
McClintock's  belief  alone.  It  was  an  especially  puzzling 
one,  having  to  do  with  the  origin  and  meaning  of  pain 
and  founded  upon  the  text,  "Whom  the  Lord  loveth  he 
chasteneth." 

"There  is  a  tendency  among  modern  translators,"  be- 
gan Mr.  McClintock,  "a  tendency  which  I  deplore,  to 
render  the  word  'chasteneth'  as  'teacheth  or  directeth.* 
This  rendering,  in  my  opinion,  is  regrettably  lax.  We 
will  therefore  confine  our  attention  to  the  older  version. 
It  is  my  belief  that.  .  .  ." 

Desire  listened  attentively  to  a  lengthy  and  blood- 
curdling exposition  of  this  belief  and  was  still  in  the  daze 
which  followed  the  hearty  singing  of  the  doxology  on 
top  of  it  when  the  assistant  Sunday  School  Superintend- 
ent asked  her  to  take  a  class.  He  was  a  very  hot  as- 
sistant and  a  very  hurried  one.  Even  while  he  spoke  to 
Desire  his  eye  wandered  past  her  to  some  of  his  flock 
who  were  escaping  by  the  church  door. 

"Do  take  a  class,  Mrs.  Spence,"  he  urged. 

"Do  you  mean  teach  one?"  asked  Desire.  "I'm  sorry, 
but  I  don't  know  how." 

"Beg  pardon?  Oh,  but  of  course  you  do.  It  is  only 
for  today.  We  are  so  short.  You  will  do  splendidly, 
I'm  sure.  They  are  very  little  girls  and  it's  in  the  Old 
Testament." 

"But  I  don't " 

"Oh,  that  will  be  quite  all  right.  It's  Moses.  Quite 
easy." 

"I  have  never " 

"It  doesn't  matter,  really.  Just  the  plain  story,  you 
know.  I  find  myself  the  best  way  is  to  adopt  a  cheer- 
ful, conversational  manner  and  keep  them  from  asking 


i8o  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

questions.  At  that  age  they  never  ask  the  right  ones. 
Stump  you  every  time  if  you're  not  careful.  Give  them 
the  facts.     They'll  understand  them  later." 

''1  don't  understand  them  myself,"  objected  Desire. 
But  by  this  time  the  assistant's  eye  was  quite  distracted. 

''So  very  good  of  you,"  he  murmured,  ''if  you  will 
come  this  way " 

Desire  went  that  way  and  presently  found  herself 
seated  in  the  Sunday  School  room  in  a  blazing  bar  of 
sunlight  and  facing  a  row  of  small  Bainbridgers,  sur- 
prisingly brisk  and  wide-awake  considering  the  weather. 

"We  usually  have  our  boys'  and  girls'  classes  sepa- 
rate," explained  the  assistant.  "But  this  is  a  mixed  class 
as  you  see." 

Desire  saw  that  the  mixture  consisted  of  a  very  round 
boy  in  a  very  stiff  sailor  suit. 

"Now  children,  Mrs.  Spence  is  going  to  tell  you  about 
Moses.  Mrs.  Spence  is  a  newcomer.  We  must  make 
her  welcome  and  show  her  how  well  behaved  we  are." 

"I'm  not,"  volunteered  an  angel-faced  child  with  an 
engaging  smile. 

"I  got  a  lickin'  on  Friday,"  added  the  round  boy^  who 
as  sole  member  of  his  sex  felt  that  he  must  stand  up 
for  it. 

The  assistant  shook  a  finger  at  them  cheerfully  and 
hurried  away. 

Desire  became  the  focus  of  all  eyes  and  a  watchful 
dumbness  settled  down  upon  them  like  a  pall.  Fran- 
tically she  tried  to  remember  her  instructions.  But  never 
had  a  light  conversational  manner  seemed  more  difficult 
to  attain. 

"I  hope,"  she  faltered,  seeking  for  a  sympathetic  en- 
try, "that  your  regular  teacher  is  not  ill?" 

The  row  of  inquiring  eyes  showed  no  intelligence. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  181 

"Is  she?"  asked  Desire,  looking  directly  at  the  child 
opposite. 

"Ma  says  she  only  thinks  she  is,"  said  the  child.  The 
row  rustled  pleasantly. 

"I  understand,"  went  on  Desire  hastily,  "that  we  are 
to  talk  about  Moses.  How  many  here  can  tell  me  any- 
thing about  Moses?" 

The  row  of  eyes  blinked.  But  Moses  might  have  been 
a  perfect  stranger  for  any  sign  of  recognition  from  their 
owners. 

"Moses,"  went  on  Desire,  "was  a  very  remarkable 
man.     In  his  age  he  seems  even  more  remarkable " 

A  small  hand  shot  up  and  an  injured  voice  inquired : 
"Please,  teacher,  don't  we  have  the  Golden  Text?" 

"I  suppose  we  do."  There  was  evidently  some  tech- 
nique here  of  which  the  hurried  assistant  had  not  in- 
formed her.  "We  will  have  it  now.  What  is  the  Golden 
Text?" 

Nobody  seemed  to  know. 

"I  don't  see  how  we  can  have  it,  if  you  don't  know 
it,"  said  Desire  mildly. 

Another  hand  shot  up.  "Please  teacher,  you  say  it 
first." 

There  was  also,  then,  an  established  order  of  prece- 
dence. 

"I  don't  know  it,  either,"  said  Desire. 

This  might  have  precipitated  a  deadlock.  But,  for- 
tunately, the  row  did  not  believe  her.  They  smiled 
stiffly.  Their  smile  revealed  more  clearly  than  anything 
else  how  unthinkable  it  was  for  a  teacher  not  to  know 
the  Golden  Text.  Desire,  in  desperation,  remembered 
the  paper-covered  "Quarterly"  which  the  assistant  had 
put  into  her  hands  and,  with  a  flash  of  inspiration,  de- 
cided that  what  the  children  wanted  was  probably  there. 
She  opened  it  feverishly  and  was  delighted  to  discover 


i82  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

"Golden  Text"  in  large  letters  on  the  first  page  she  looked 
at.     She  read  hastily. 

"And  thou  Bethlehem  in  the  land  of  Juda " 

A  whole  row  of  hands  shot  up.  "Please  teacher,  that 
was  last  Christmas !"  announced  the  class  reproachfully. 

With  shame  Desire  noticed  that  the  lessons  in  the 
Quarterly  were  dated.  But  she  was  regaining  some- 
thing of  her  ordinary  poise. 

"You  ought  to  know  it,  even  if  it  is,"  she  remarked 
firmly.  This  was  more  according  to  Hoyle.  The  little 
boy's  hand  answered  it. 

"  Tain't  review  Sunday,  teacher." 

Teacher  decided  to  ignore  this.  "Very  well,"  she  said. 
**We  will  now  have  the  Golden  Text  for  today.  Who 
^ill  say  it  first  ?  I  will  give  you  a  start — 'As  Moses '  '* 

"As  Moses,"  piped  a  chorus  of  small  voices. 

"Lifted  up,"  prompted  Desire. 

"Lifted  up,"  shrilled  the  chorus. 

"Yes?"  expectantly. 

The  chorus  was  silent. 

"Well,  children,  go  on." 

But  nobody  went  on. 

"You  don't  know  it,"  declared  Desire  with  mild  se- 
verity. "Very  well.  Learn  it  for  next  Sunday.  Now 
I  am  going  to  ask  you  some  questions.  First  of  all — 
who  was  Moses?" 

She  asked  the  question  generally  but  her  eye  fell  upon 
the  one  male  member  who  swallowed  his  Sunday  gum- 
drop  with  a  gulp. 

"Don't  know  his  nother  name,"  said  the  male  member 
sulkily. 

Desire  realized  that  she  didn't  know,  either.  "I  did 
not  ask  you  to  tell  his  name  but  something  about  him. 
Where  he  lived,  for  instance.  Where  did  Moses  live?" 
Her  eye  swept  down  to  the  mite  at  the  end  of  the  row. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  183 


"Bulrushes!"  said  that  infant  gaspingly. 

*'He  was  hidden  among  bulrushes,"  explained  Desire, 
*'but  he  couldn't  exactly  live  there.  Does  anyone  know 
what  a  bulrush  is?" 

The  row  exchanged  glances  and  nudged  each  other. 

'Things  you  soak  in  coal-oil,"  began  one. 

*To  make  torches  at  'lections,"  added  another. 

''Same  as  cat-tails,"  volunteered  a  third  condescend- 
ingly. 

"Well,  even  if  they  were  anything  like  that,  he  couldn't 
live  in  them,  could  he?"  Desire  felt  that  she  had  made 
a  point  at  last. 

"Could  if  he  was  a  frog,"  offered  the  male  member 
after  consideration. 

To  Desire's  surprise  the  row  accepted  this  seriously. 

"But  as  he  was  a  baby  and  not  a  frog,"  she  went  on 
hurriedly,  "he  must  have  lived  with  his  mother  in  a 
house.  The  name  of  the  country  they  lived  in  was 
Egypt.     And  Egypt  had  a  wicked  King.     This  wicked 

King  ordered  all  the  little  boy  babies "     She  paused, 

appalled  at  the  thought  of  telling  these  infants  of  that 
long-past  ruthlessness.  But,  again  to  her  surprise,  the 
infants  now  showed  pleasurable  interest.  An  excited 
murmur  rose. 

"I  Hke  that  parti"  .  .  .  "Why  didn't  he  kill  the  girl 
babies,  too?"  .  .  .  "Did  he  cut  their  heads  right  off?" 
.  .  .  "Did  their  mothers  holler?"  .  .  .  While  the  male 
member  offered  with  an  air  of  authority,  "I  'spect  he 
just  wrung  their  necks." 

"Well,  well!  Getting  along  nicely,  I  see,"  said  the 
assistant,  tiptoeing  down  the  aisle.  "I  felt  sure  you 
would  interest  them,  Mrs.  Spence.  You  will  find  our 
children  very  intelligent." 

"Very,"  agreed  Desire. 

"They  all  know  the  Golden  Text,  I  am  sure,"  he  con- 


i84  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


tinued  with  that  delightful  manner  which  children  dumbly 
hate.     ''Annie,  you  may  begin." 

But  Annie  refused  to  avail  herself  of  this  privilege. 
Instead  she  showed  symptoms  of  tears. 

''Come,  come!"  chided  the  assistant  still  more  delight- 
fully. "We  mustn't  be  shy!  Bessie,  let  us  hear  from 
you.     'As  Moses '  " 

"As  Moses." 

"Very  good.     Now,  Eddie.     'Lifted  up.'  " 

"Lifted  up." 

"Very  good  indeed.     Mabel,  you  next.  'The  ser- 


"Fm  scared  of  snakes,"  said  Mabel  unexpectedly. 

"Well,  well !  But  you  are  not  afraid  of  snakes  in  Sun- 
day School." 

"I'm  s-cared  of  snakes  anywhere!''  wailed  Mabel. 

"Oh,  there  is  the  first  bell — excuse  me."  The  relief 
of  the  assistant  was  a  joyful  thing.  "That  means  that 
)^ou  have  three  minutes  more,  Mrs.  Spence.  We  usually 
utilize  these  last  moments  for  driving  home  the  main 
thought  of  the  lesson.  Very  important,  of  course,  to 
leave  some  concrete  idea — sorry,  I  must  hurry." 

Desire  felt  that  she  must  hurry,  too.  She  hadn't  even 
time  to  wonder  what  a  concrete  idea  might  be.  One  can't 
wonder  about  anything  in  three  minutes. 

"Children,"  she  began.  "We  haven't  learned  much 
about  Moses.  But  the  main  idea  of  this  lesson  is  that 
he  was  a  very  good  man  and  a  great  patriot.  He  had 
been  brought  up  in  a  King's  palace,  yet  when  the  time 
came  for  him  to  choose,  he  left  the  beautiful  home  of  the 
mother  who  had  adopted  him  and  went  to  his  own  peo- 
ple. His  Own  People,"  she  repeated  slowly.  "Do  you 
understand  that  ?"  The  class  sat  stolidly  silent.  Desire's 
eye  rested  again  upon  the  little  girl  with  the  prim  mouth. 

"Ma  says  Mopting  anyone's  a  terrible  risk,"  said  the 
prim  one.     "Like  as  not  they'll  never  say  thank  yuh."  .  .  . 


XXIII 

A  ND  that,"  said  Desire  later  in  the  day  as  she  re- 
-^  ^  lated  her  experiences  to  the  professor,  ''that  was 
the  idea  with  which  I  left  them !  I  shan't  have  to  teach 
again,  shall  I,  Benis?" 

Her  husband  smiled.  "No.  I  should  think  more 
would  be  a  superfluity.'' 

''They'll  say  Vm  a  heathen.  I  know  they  will.  You 
don't  realize  how  serious  it  is.  Think  how  your  pres- 
tige will  suffer." 

'Tt  has  suffered  already.  Only  yesterday  Mrs. 
Walkem,  the  laundress,  told  Aunt  that  your — er — ^pe- 
culiarities were  a  judgment  on  me  for  'tryin'  to  find  out 
them  things  in  folkses  minds  which  God  has  hid  away 
a-purpose.'  " 

"But  I'm  in  earnest,  Benis — more  or  less." 

"Let  it  be  less,  then.  My  dear  girl,  you  don't  really 
think  that  Bainbridge  disturbs  me?" 

"N-no.  But  it  disturbs  me.  A  little.  I  am  so  dif- 
ferent from  all  these  people,  your  friends.  And  being 
different  is  rather — lonely." 

"It  is,"  he  agreed.     "But  it  is  also  stimulating." 

"I  used  to  think,"  she  went  on,  following  her  own 
thought,  "that  I  was  different  because  my  life  was 
different.  I  thought  that  if  I  could  ever  live  with  peo- 
ple, just  as  we  live  here,  with  everything  normal  and 
everyday,  the  strangeness  would  drop  away.  But  it 
hasn't.     I  am  still  outside." 

"Everyone  is,  though  you  are  young  to  realize  it.  Our 
social  life  is  very  deceiving.  Most  of  us  wake  up  some 
day  to  find  ourselves  alone  in  a  desert." 

185 


i86  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

Desire  swung  the  hammock  gently  with  the  tip  of  her 
shoe.     "Is  not  one  ever  a  part  of  a  whole?" 

"Socially,  yes.  Spiritually — I  doubt  it.  It  is  some- 
thing which  you  will  have  to  decide  for  yourself." 

'1  don't  want  to  be  alone,"  said  Desire  rebelliously. 
"It  frightens  me.  I  want  to  have  a  place.  I  want  to  fit 
in.  But  here,  it  seems  as  if  I  had  come  too  late.  Every- 
one is  fitted  in  already.     There  isn't  a  tiny  corner  left." 

Spence's  grey  eyes  looked  at  her  with  a  curious  light 
in  their  depths. 

"Wait,"  he  said.  "You  haven't  found  your  comer 
yet.     When  you  do,  the  rest  won't  matter." 

"But  people  do  not  want  me.  I  had  a  horrid  dream 
last  night.  I  was  wandering  all  through  Bainbridge  and 
all  the  doors  were  open  so  that  I  might  go  in  anywhere. 
I  was  glad — at  first.  But  I  soon  saw  that  my  freedom 
did  not  mean  anything.  No  one  saw  me  when  I  en- 
tered or  cared  when  I  went  away.  I  spoke  to  them  and 
they  did  not  answer.  Then  I  knew  that  I  was  just  a 
ghost." 

"I'm  another,"  said  a  cheerful  voice  behind  them.  "All 
my  *too,  too  solid  flesh'  is  melting  rapidly.  Only  ice- 
cream can  save  me  now!"  Using  his  straw  hat  vigor- 
ously as  a  fan  Dr.  Rogers  dropped  limply  into  an  empty 
chair.  "Tell  you  a  secret,"  he  went  on  confidentially. 
*T  had  two  invitations  to  Sunday  supper  but  neither  in- 
cluded ice-cream.    So  I  came  on  here." 

"Very  kind,  I'm  sure,"  murmured  Benis. 

"How  did  you  guess?"  began  Desire,  and  then  she 
dimpled.    "Oh,  of  course, — Benis  wasn't  in  church." 

"How  did  he  know  that?"  asked  Benis  sharply.  "He 
wasn't  there,  was  he?" 

The  doctor  looked  conscious.  Desire  laughed.  "His 
presence  did  seem  to  create  a  mild  sensation,"  she  ad- 
mitted. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  187 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  explained,  "in  the  summer  I  am 
often  very  busy '* 

"In  the  cellar,"  murmured  Benis. 

"But  no  one  happened  to  need  me  today  and,  besides, 
my  freezer  is  broken.    This,  combined  with " 

"An  added  attraction,"  sotto  voce  from  the  professor. 

"Oh,  well — I  went,  anyway." 

"I  saw  you  there,"  said  Desire,  ignoring  their  ban- 
ter. "I  thought  you  might  have  gone  for  the  sermon. 
The  subject  was  one  of  your  specialties,  wasn't  it?" 

The  doctor  twirled  his  hat. 

"Better  tell  him  what  the  subject  was,"  suggested  Benis 
unkindly. 

"Didn't  you  listen?"  Desire's  inquiring  eyebrows 
lifted.  "That's  one  of  the  things  I  don't  understand 
about  people  here.  Church  and  church  affairs  seem  to 
play  such  an  important  part  in  Bainbridge.  Nearly 
everyone  goes  to  some  church.  But  no  one  seems  at 
all  disturbed  about  what  they  hear  there.  Is  it  because 
they  believe  all  that  the  minister  says,  or  because  they 
don't  believe  any  of  it  ?" 

Her  hearers  exchanged  an  alarmed  glance. 

"What  do  you  want  them  to  do?"  said  John  uneasily. 
"Argue  about  it?  Besides,  this  morning  was  very  ex- 
ceptionally hot." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  any  more  heathen  than  I  have  to 
be,"  went  on  Desire,  "but  I  must  be  terribly  heathen  if 
what  Mr.  McClintock  said  this  morning  is  right.  He 
was  speaking  of  pain,  physical  pain,  and,  he  said  God 
sent  it.  I  always  thought, "she  concluded  naively,  "that 
it  came  straight  from  the  devil." 

"Healthy  chap,  McClintock!"  said  Benis  lazily. 
"Never  had  anything  worse  than  measles  and  doesn't  re* 
member  them." 

"What  I'd  like  to  know,"  said  the  doctor,  "would  be 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


his  opinion  after  several  weeks  of — something  unpleas- 
ant. He  might  feel  more  like  blaming  the  devil.  What 
does  he  think  doctors  are  fighting?  God?  By  Jove,  I 
must  have  this  out  with  McClintock !  I  know  that,  for 
one,  I  never  fight  down  pain  without  a  glorious  sense 
of  giving  Satan  his  licks." 

''But  you  did  not  even  Hsten.'' 

"Fm  listening  now." 

*'And  no  one  else  seemed  to  object  to  anything  he  said. 
I  heard  some  of  them  call  it  a  ^beautiful  discourse'  and 
*so  helpful.'  " 

Under  her  perplexed  gaze  the  two  Bainbridgers  were 
clearly  uncomfortable. 

"It's  because  you  don't  really  care  what  you  hear  from 
the  pulpit,"  said  the  girl  accusingly.  ''You  have  your 
own  beliefs  and  go  your  own  ways.  Another  man's 
views,  good  or  bad,  make  no  difference." 

"S-shish!  'ware  Aunt  Caroline!"  warned  the  profes- 
sor, but  Desire  was  too  absorbed  to  heed. 
~^  "Why,  if  one  actually  believed  half  of  what  was  said 
this  morning,"  she  went  on,  "the  world  would  be  a  beau- 
tiful garden  with  half  its  lovely  things  forbidden.  'Don't 
touch  the  flowers'  and  'Keep  off  the  grass'  would  be 
everywhere.  It  seems  such  a  waste,  if  God  made  so 
many  happy  things  and  then  doesn't  like  it  if  people  are 
too  happy." 

"Not  many  of  us  suffer  from  too  much  happiness," 
muttered  Benis. 

"Or  too  much  health,"  echoed  the  doctor.  "I'd  like 
to  tell  McCHntock  that  if  people  would  expect  more 
health,  they'd  get  more.  The  ordinary  person  expects  ill- 
ness. They  have  a  'disease  complex' — that's  in  your 
line,  Benis.  But  just  supposing  they  could  change  the 
idea — Eh?     Supposing   everybody   began    to   look    for 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  189 

health — just  take  it,  you  know,  as  a  God-intended  right  ? 
I'd  lose  half  my  living  in  a  fortnight." 

''John  Rogers!"  Aunt  Caroline's  voice  fell  v^ith  the 
effect  of  sizzling  hailstones  upon  the  fire  of  John's  en- 
thusiasm. "If  you  must  talk  heresy,  there  are  otlier 
places  beside  my  garden  to  do  it  in." 

*'I  was  merely  saying " 

*1  heard  what  you  were  saying.  And  although  it 
takes  a  great  deal  to  surprise  me,  I  am  surprised.  Such 
doctrines  I  consider  most  dangerous,  highly  so.  If  you 
are  thinking  of  setting  up  as  a  faith  heal^,  the  sooner 
we  know  it  the  better.  Desire,  my  dear,  you  might  see 
Olive  about  tea.  Tell  her  not  to  forget  the  lemon.  I 
do  not  know  what  I  have  done  to  deserve  a  maid  called 
Olive,"  she  sighed,  *'but  the  only  alternative  was  Gladys. 
And  Gladys  I  could  not  endure.  As  for  illness,  I  am 
surprised  at  you,  John  Rogers.  I  was  not  in  church 
owing  to  a  severe  headache,  but  I  know  the  sermon.  It 
is  one  of  Mr.  McClintock's  very  best.  If  you  had  not 
gone  to  sleep  in  the  middle  of  the  first  point  you  would 
have  heard  the  mystery  of  pain  beautifully  explained.  A 
wonderful  preacher.     If  he  wouldn't  chck  his  teeth." 

The  professor  shuddered. 

"Benis  acts  so  foolishly  about  it,"  went  on  Aimt  Caro- 
line. ''He  insists  that  the  chcking  makes  him  ill.  But 
why  should  it?  At  the  same  time,  if  one  of  the  Elders 
were  to  suggest,  tactfully,  to  Mr.  McClintock  that  he 
have  the  upper  set  tightened  it  might  be  well.  It  would 
at  least"  (with  grimness)  "do  away  with  the  trivial 
excuses  of  some  people  for  not  attending  Divine  serv- 
ice." 

Her  graceless  nephew  was  imderstood  to  murmur 
somethmg  about  "too  hot  to  fight." 

"As  for  Mr.  McClintock's  ideas,"  pursued  Aunt  Carc^ 
line,  "they  are  quite  beautiful.     The  first  time  he  gave 


190  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

the  deathbed  description  which  comprises  part  of  this 
morning's  discourse  he  had  us  all  in  tears.  I  mean  all 
of  us  who  were  sufficiently  awake  to  realize  the  fact  that 
it  was  a  deathbed.  His  description  of  the  last  agony 
has  clearly  lost  nothing  in  poignancy,  for  Desire  came 
home  quite  pale.  I  wonder  if  you  have  noticed,  Benis, 
that  Desire  is  looking  somewhat  less  robust?  Doctor, 
now  that  she  Is  not  here " 

''Now  that  she  is  not  here,  we  will  not  discuss  her,'* 
said  Spence  firmly. 

''Indeed!  And  may  I  ask  why  you  wish  to  stop  me, 
Benis?  I  am  speaking  to  a  qualified  medical  man,  am 
I  not?  But  there,"  with  resignation,  "I  never  can  ex- 
pect to  understand  the  present  generation.  So  lax  on 
one  hand,  so  squeamish  on  the  other.  Surely  it  is  per- 
fectly proper  that  I,  her  Aunt — oh,  very  well,  Benis,  if 
you  are  determined  to  be  silly." 

"Now  with  regard  to  the  Rev.  McClintock,"  put  in 
the  doctor  hastily.  "Do  you  really  think  that  he  is  suf- 
ficiently in  touch  with  modem  views  to — to — oh,  dash 
it!  what  was  I  saying?" 

"You  were  interrupting  me  when  I  was  telling 
Benis " 

"Oh  yes.  I  remember.  We  were  talking  about  new 
ideas.  And  you  suggested  heresy.  But  you  must  re- 
member that,  in  my  profession,  new  ideas  are  not  called 
heresy — except  when  they  are  very  new.  What  would 
you  think  of  me  if  I  doctored  exactly  as  my  father  did 
before  me?" 

"When  you  are  half  as  capable  as  your  father,  young 
man,  I  may  discuss  that  with  you." 

"One  for  you!"  said  Benis  gleefully. 

"Well,  leaving  me  out  then,  and  speaking  generally, 
why  should  a  physician  search  continually  for  fresh  wis- 
dom, while  a  minister " 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  191 

"Beware,  young  man!"  Aunt  Caroline  raised  an  af- 
frighted hand.  * 'Beware  how  you  compare  your  case 
with  that  of  a  minister  of  the  Gospel.  That  further 
wisdom  is  needed  in  the  practice  of  medicine,  anyone 
who  has  ever  employed  a  doctor  is  well  aware.  But 
where  is  he  who  dare  add  one  jot  to  Divine  revelation?" 

"No  one  is  speaking  of  adding  anything.  But  surely, 
in  the  matter  of  interpretation,  an  open  mind  is  a  first 
essential?" 

"In  the  matter  of  interpretation,"  said  Aunt  Caro- 
line grandly,  "we  have  our  ordained  ministers.  How 
do  you  feel,"  she  added  shrewdly,  "toward  quacks  and 
healers  who,  without  study  or  training,  call  themselves 
doctors?     Do  you  say,  'Let  us  display  an  open  mind'?" 

"Time!"  said  Benis,  who  enjoyed  his  relative  hugely 
— when  she  w^as  disciplining  someone  else.  "Here  comes 
Desire  with  the  tea." 

"What  I  really  came  out  to  say,  Benis,"  resumed  Aunt 
Caroline,  "is  that  I  have  just  had  a  long  distance  call — 
Desire,  my  dear,  cream  or  lemon? — a  long  distance  call 
from  Toronto  where,  I  fear,  such  things  are  allowed  on 
Sunday — Doctor,  you  like  lemon,  I  think? — a  call  in 
fact  from  Mary  Davis.  You  remember  her,  Benis? 
Such  a  sw^eet  girl.  She  is  feeling  a  little  tired  and  would 
like  to  run  down  here  for  a  rest.  Desire,  my  dear,  have 
you  any  plans  with  which  this  would  interfere?  I  said 
that  I  would  consult  you  and  let  her  know.  You  are 
very  careless  with  your  plate,  Benis.  That  Spode  can 
never  be  replaced." 

Fortunately  her  anxiety  for  the  family  heirloom  ab- 
sorbed Aunt  Caroline's  whole  attention.  If  she  noticed 
her  nephew's  look  of  anguished  guilt  and  his  friend's 
politely  raised  brows  she  ascribed  it  to  his  carelessness 
in  balancing  china.  Desire's  downcast  eyes  and  stiffened 
manner  she  did  not  notice  at  all. 


192  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 


"Well,  my  dear,  what  do  you  say?  Shall  we  invite 
Mary?" 

"It  depends  on  Benis,  of  course,"  said  Desire  quietly. 

"Benis?  What  has  Benis  to  do  with  it?  Not  but 
that  he  enjoyed  having  her  here  last  time  well  enough. 
It  is  the  privilege  of  the  mistress  of  the  house  to  choose 
her  guests.  I  hope  you  will  not  be  slack  in  claiming 
your  privileges.  They  are  much  harder  to  obtain  than 
one's  rights.  My  dear  sister  was  careless.  She  allowed 
Benis's  father  to  do  just  as  he  pleased.  Be  warned  in 
time." 

"Do  you  wish  Miss  Davis  to  visit  us,  Benis?"  De- 
sire's hands  were  busy  with  her  teacup.  Her  eyes  were 
still  lowered. 

"I  have  no  wishes  whatever  in  the  matter,"  said  the 
professor  with  what  might  be  considered  admirable  de- 
tachment. 

"Tell  Miss  Davis  we  shall  be  delighted,  Aunt,"  said 
Desire. 


XXIV 

**  I  ^IME,  in  quiet  neighborhoods,  like  water  in  a  pool, 
-*-  slips  in  and  out  leaving  the  pool  but  little  changed. 
Only  when  one  is  waiting  for  something  dreaded  or  de- 
sired do  the  days  drag  or  hasten.  Miss  Davis  was  to 
arrive  upon  the  Friday  following  her  telephone  invita- 
tion. That  left  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday  and 
Thursday.     Desire  found  them  very  long. 

Nothing  more  had  been  said  of  the  personality  of  the 
expected  visitor.  Desire  did  not  ask,  because  she  felt 
sure  that,  when  she  had  seen,  she  would  know  without 
asking.  At  present  there  was  little  enough  to  go  upon. 
The  guest's  name  was  Mary.  Her  hair  was  yellow.  She 
had  visited  in  Bainbridge  before.  She  and  Benis  had 
been  friends.  Beyond  this  there  was  nothing  save  the 
professor's  carelessness  with  the  family  Spode — an  an- 
noying device  for  diverting  attention  in  moments  of  em- 
barrassment. 

Against  this  circumstantial  evidence  there  was  the 
common-sense  argument  that  the  real  Mary  of  the  pro- 
fessor's romance  would  hardly  be  likely,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, to  propose  herself  as  his  aunt's  guest. 

Desire  was  inclined  to  take  the  common-sense  view. 
Especially  as  just  about  this  time  she  came  upon  the 
track  of  another  Mary,  also  with  yellow  hair,  who  pre- 
sented possibilities.  The  most  suspicious  thing  about  this 
second  Mary  was  that  neither  the  professor  nor  his 
friend  Dr.  Rogers  had  been  able  to  tell  Desire  her  first 
name.  Now  in  Bainbridge  everyone  knows  the  first 
name  of  everyone  else.  One  does  not  use  it,  necessarily, 
but  one  knows  it.     So  that  when  Desire,  having  one  day 

193 


194 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


noticed  a  gleam  of  particularly  golden  hair,  asked  inno- 
cently to  whom  it  might  belong  and  was  met  by  a  plain 
surname  prefixed  merely  by  "Miss,"  she  became  instantly 
curious.  From  other  sources  she  learned  that  the  golden- 
haired  Miss  Watkins  had  been  employed  as  a  nurse  in 
Dr.  Rogers'  office  for  several  months  and  that  her  Chris- 
tian name  was  Mary  Sophia. 

This  also,  you  will  see,  was  not  much  to  build  upon. 
But  Desire  felt  that  she  must  neglect  nothing.  The 
menace  of  the  unseen,  unknown  Mary  Avas  beginning 
seriously  to  disturb  her  peace  of  mind.  She  determined 
to  see  the  doctor's  pretty  nurse  at  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity. 

The  comradeship  between  herself  and  Rogers  had 
prospered  amazingly.  She  had  liked  the  young  doctor 
at  first  sight ;  had  discerned  in  him  something  charmingly 
boylike  and  appealing.  And  Desire  had  never  had  boy 
friends.  The  utter  frankness  of  her  friendship  was  un- 
disturbed by  overmuch  knowledge  of  her  own  attrac- 
tions, and  the  possibility  of  less  contentment  on  his  side 
did  not  occur  to  her.  Feeling  herself  so  much  older,  in 
reality,  than  he,  she  assumed  with  delicious  naivete,  the 
role  of  confidant  and  general  adviser.  What  time  she 
could  spare  from  Benis  and  the  great  Book  she  bestowed 
most  generously  upon  his  friend. 

During  the  four  dragging  days  of  waiting  the  appear- 
ance of  Miss  Davis,  she  had  found  the  distraction  of 
Dr.  John's  company  particularly  helpful.  And  then, 
after  all.  Miss  Davis  did  not  arrive.  Instead,  there  came 
a  note  regretting  a  very  bad  cold  and  postponing  the 
visit  until  its  indefinite  recovery.  The  news  came  at 
the  breakfast  table. 

"How  long,"  asked  Desire  thoughtfully,  "does  a  bad 
cold  usually  last?" 

"Not  long — if  it's  just  a  cold,"  answered  Benis  with 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  195 

some  gloom.  "But,"  more  hopefully,  "if  it  is  tonsillitis 
it  lasts  weeks  and  if  pneumonia  sets  in  you  have  to  stay 
indoors  for  months." 

Aunt  Caroline  looked  over  her  spectacles. 

"You  sound,"  she  said,  "as  if  you  wish  it  were  pneu- 
monia." 

But  in  this  she  was,  perhaps,  severe.  Her  nephew  was 
really  not  capable  of  wishing  pneumonia  for  anyone, 
not  even  a  possible  Nemesis  by  the  name  of  Mary.  He 
merely  felt  that  if  such  a  complication  should  supervene 
he  would  bear  the  news  with  fortitude.  For,  speaking 
colloquially,  the  professor  was  finding  himself  very  much 
*'in  the  air."  Desire's  mind  upon  the  subject  of  this 
guest  in  particular  and  of  Marys  in  general,  had  become 
clouded  to  his  psychological  gaze.  He  had  thought  at 
first  that  his  young  secretary  was  jealous  with  that  harm- 
less sex  jealousy  w^hich  may  almost  as  well  be  described 
as  "pique."  But,  of  late,  he  had  not  felt  so  sure  about 
it.  He  did  not,  in  fact,  feel  quite  so  sure  about  any- 
thing. 

Desire  was  changing.  He  had  expected  her  to  change, 
but  the  rapidity  of  it  was  somewhat  breath-taking.  In 
appearance  she  had  become  noticeably  younger.  The  firm 
line  of  her  lips  had  taken  on  softer  curves;  the  warm 
white  of  her  skin  was  bloomy  like  a  healthy  child's; 
shadow  after  shadow  had  lifted  from  her  deep  grey 
eyes.  But  it  was  in  her  manner  that  the  most  significant 
difference  lay.  Spence  sometimes  wondered  if  he  had 
dreamed  the  silent  Desire  of  the  mountain  cottage.  That 
Desire  had  stood  coldly  alone;  had  listened  and  weighed 
and  gone  her  own  way  with  the  hard  confidence  of  too 
early  maturity.  This  Desire  listened  and  weighed  still, 
but  her  confidence  was  often  now  replaced  by  question- 
ing. In  this  new  and  more  normal  world,  her  unserved, 
unsatisfied  youth  was  breaking  through. 


196  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

But,  if  she  were  younger,  she  was  certainly  not  more 
simple.  If  the  grey  eyes  were  less  shadowed,  they  were 
no  less  inscrutable.  If  the  lips  were  softer,  their  serenity 
was  as  baffling  as  their  sternness  had  been.  If  she  seemed 
more  plastic  she  was  not  less  illusive.  Nimble  as  were 
his  mental  processes,  the  professor  was  discomfited  to 
find  that  hers  were  still  more  nimble. 

Meanwhile  the  Book  was  getting  on.  No  excursions 
into  the  land  of  youth  were  allowed  to  interfere  with 
Desire's  idea  of  her  secretarial  duties.  If  anyone 
shirked,  it  was  the  author;  if  anyone  wanted  holidays  it 
was  he.  If  he  were  lazy,  Desire  found  ways  of  mak- 
ing progress  without  him ;  if  he  grumbled,  she  laughed. 

The  day  set  apart  for  the  arrival  of  Miss  Davis  had 
been  voted  a  holiday  and  the  professor  hoped  that  her 
non-appearance  would  not  interfere  with  so  pleasant  an 
arrangement.  But  Desire's  ideas  were  quite  otherwise. 
Sharply  on  time  she  descended  to  the  Hbrary  with  her 
note-book  ready.    The  professor  felt  injured. 

"Must  we  really?"  he  said.  "Yes.  I  see  we  must. 
But  mind !  I  know  why  you  are  doing  it.  I  thought  of 
your  reason  in  the  night  when  I  was  unable  to  sleep  from 
overwork.  You  are  hurrying  to  get  through  so  that  we 
may  leave  this  sleepy  town.  Insatiable  window-gazer! 
You  wish  to  look  in  bigger  windows." 

"Do  I?"  Desire  turned  limpid  eyes  upon  him  and 
tapped  her  note-book.  "Then  the  sooner  we  get  on  with 
this  chapter  on  The  Significance  of  the  Totem'  the  bet- 
ter. But,  if  you  can  excuse  me  this  afternoon.  Dr.  John 
has  just  'phoned  to  ask  me  if  I  can  call  on  the  eldest 
Miss  Martin.  He  says  that  her  state  of  mind  is  her 
greatest  trouble.    And  it  does  not  react  to  medicine." 

The  professor  looked  still  more  injured. 

"We  can't  begin  the  totem  chapter  unless  we  are  going 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  197 

to  go  on  with  it,"  he  objected.     '1  don't  see  why  John 
doesn't  get  a  secretary  of  his  own." 

*'He  has  a  nurse,"  said  Desire  smoothly. 
*'Ei- — oh  yes,  of  course.     Well,  perhaps  we  had  bet- 
ter begin — but  why  does  he  want  you  to  call  on  Miss 
Martin?" 

Desire  looked  self-conscious,  a  rare  thing  for  her. 
''Well,  you  see,  I  have  an  idea  about  Miss  Martin.  It 
may  be  entirely  wrong  but  John  thinks  it  worth  trying. 
You  knew  that  her  fiance  was  killed  just  before  the  armis- 
tice, didn't  you?  John  says  she  seemed  stunned  at  the 
time  but  kept  on,  the  way  most  women  did.  She  helped 
him  fight  the  'flu'  all  that  winter  without  taking  it  her- 
self. But  she  was  one  of  the  first  to  come  down  with  it 
when  it  returned  this  Spring.  She  got  through  the  worst 
— and  there  she  stays.  John  says  that  if  she  doesn't 
begin  to  pick  up  soon  there  won't  be  enough  of  her  left 
to  bother  about." 
**And  your  idea?" 

"You  might  laugh,"  said  Desire  with  sudden  shyness. 
The  professor  promised  not  to  laugh. 
"My  idea  is  this.     To  find  out  the  real  reason  for 
her  not  getting  better  and  treat  that." 
"Very  simple." 

"Yes,  because  John  already  knows  the  real  cause.  He 
says  she  doesn't  get  well  because  she  doesn't  want  to. 
In  the  old  days  people  would  say  her  heart  was  broken. 
And  it  seems  such  a  pity,  because,  if  what  everyone  says 
is  true,  she  would  have  been  frightfully  unhappy  if  she 
had  married  him.  (Desire  became  slightly  incoherent 
here.)  They  weren't  suited  at  all.  He  was  a  musician, 
a  derelict  who  hadn't  a  thought  in  the  world  for  anything 
but  his  violin.  Aunt  Caroline  says  the  engagement  was 
a  mystery  to  everyone.  She  says  that  probably  Miss 
Martin  just  offered  to  take  him  in  hand  and  look  after 


198  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

him  (she  used  to  be  very  capable)  and  he  hadn't  backbone 
enough  to  say  she  couldn't.  They  say  that  the  only  time 
anyone  ever  saw  a  gleam  in  his  face  was  the  day  he 
went  away  to  the  war.  Then  he  was  killed.  And  nonr 
she  won't  get  well  because  she  can't  forget  him." 

''And  that  is  what  you  call  a  'pity'  ?" 

''Well,  not  exactly  that."  She  hesitated.  "If  he  had 
cared  for  her  as  she  thought  he  did,  it  wouldn't  seem  such 
a  waste.  But  he  didn't.  Everybody  knew  it — except 
herself." 

"Everybody  may  have  been  wrong." 

"Yes.  But  that  is  just  the  point.  They  weren't.  He 
died  as  he  had  lived  without  a  thought  for  anything  but 
music.  I  happened  to  hear  a  rather  wonderful  story 
about  his  dying.  Sergeant  Timms,  who  drives  the 
baker's  cart,  was  in  the  next  cot  to  his,  in  the  hospital. 
And  my  idea  is  that  if  he  could  just  tell  her  the  story — 
just  let  her  see  that  he  went  away  without  a  thought — 
she  might  get  things  in  proportion  again  and  let  herself 
get  well." 

"I  see.  Well,  my  dear,  it  is  your  idea.  Is  John  going 
to  drive  you  out?" 

"No.  He  wanted  to.  But  I'll  have  to  find  the  Ser- 
geant and  take  him  with  me." 

"In  the  baker's  cart?" 

"What  a  good  idea!  I  would  never  have  thought  of 
that.  And  I've  always  wanted  to  ride  in  a  baker's  cart. 
They  smell  so  crusty." 

So  it  was  really  the  professor's  fault  that  Bainbridge 
was  scandalized  by  the  sight  of  young  Mrs.  Spence  jog- 
ging comfortably  along  through  the  outskirts  in  a  bread 
cart  driven  by  the  one-time  Sergeant  Edward  Timms. 

"And  him  so  silly  with  havin'  her,"  said  Mrs.  Beatty 
(who  first  noticed  them),  "that  he  didn't  know  a  French 
roll  from  a  currant  bun." 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  199 

Indeed  we  may  as  well  admit  that  the  gallant  Sergeant 
confused  more  things  that  day  than  rolls  and  buns.  The 
latter  part  of  his  orderly  bread  route  was  strewn  thickly 
with  indignant  customers.  For  the  Sergeant  was  a  thor- 
oughgoing fellow  quite  incapable  of  a  divided  interest. 

''You  can  tell  me  the  details  of  the  story  as  we  go 
along,"  Desire  said,  ''so  that  I  shan't  be  interrupting  your 
work  at  all." 

The  dazzled  Sergeant  agreed  and  immediately  deliv- 
ered two  whites  instead  of  one  brown  and  forgot  the 
tickets. 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  said,  "it  was  this  way.  We  went 
over  there  together,  him  and  me.  And  we  hadn't  known 
each  other,  so  to  speak,  not  intimate.  You  didn't  know 
him  yourself  at  all,  did  you?" 

Desire  shook  her  head. 

"He  was  a  queer  one.  Willin'  as  could  be  to  do  what 
he  was  told,  but  forgettin'  what  it  was,  regular.  Just 
naturally  no  good,  like,  except  with  the  fiddle.  I  will 
say,  that  with  that  there  instrument  he  was  a  Pader- 
wooski — yes,  mam !  By  the  time  our  outfit  got  into  them 
trenches  the  boys  was  just  clean  dippy  about  him.  They 
kind  of  took  turns  dry-nursin'  him  and  remindin'  him 
of  the  things  he'd  got  to  do,  and  doin'  them  for  him 
when  they  could  put  it  over.  I'll  tell  you  this — it's  my 
private  suspicion  that  more  than  one  chap  went  west 
tryin'  to  keep  the  bullets  offen  him !  Not  that  they  w^ere 
crazy  about  him  exactly,  but  that  fiddle  of  his  had  got 
them  goin'.  'Twasn't  only  the  fiddle  he  played  on,  either. 
Anything  would  do.  That  there  chap  could  play  you 
into  any  kind  of  dashed  mood  he  liked  and  out  of  it 
again.  Put  more  pep  into  you  with  a  penny  whistle  than 
Sousy's  band  or  a  bottle  of  rum.  Ring  you  out  like  a 
dishrag,  he  could,  and  hang  you  out  to  dry.  Gee!  He 
could  do  anything — just  anything!" 


200  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

(It  was  here  that  the  bun  episode  occurred.) 

**Well, — ^he  got  buried.  Parapet  blown  in.  And  when 
they  got  him  out  he  was — hurt  some."  (The  Sergeant 
remembered  that  one  must  not  shock  the  ladies.) 

'That  was  all  I  would  have  known  about  it,"  he  went 
on,  "only  we  happen  to  turn  up  in  hospital  together. 
I  wakes  up  one  mornin'  and  finds  him  in  the  next  cot. 
He  was  supposed  to  be  recoverin'  but  was  somehow 
botchin'  the  job. 

"  *  Where's  the  fiddle?'  I  says  to  him  one  day  when  I 
was  feelin'  social.  And  then,  all  of  a  minute,  I  guessed 
why  he  wasn't  patchin'  up  like  what  was  his  duty.  You 
see,  that  b-blessed  parapet  hadn't  had  any  more  sense 
than  to  go  and  spoil  his  right  arm  for  him — the  one  he 
fiddled  with,  see?" 

(Here  the  Sergeant  delivered  one  brick  loaf  instead 
of  two  sandwich  ditto.) 

"Well,  they  kept  sayin*  there  weren't  any  reason  he 

shouldn't  mend  up.     But  he  didn't.     And  one  night " 

the  Sergeant  pulled  up  the  cart  so  quickly  that  Desire 
almost  fell  out  of  it.  "You  won't  believe  this  part," 
he  said  in  a  kind  of  shamefaced  way. 

"Try  me." 

"Well  then,  one  night  he  called  to  me  in  a  kind  of 
clear  whisper.     *Bob !'  he  says,  I've  got  my  fiddle  1' 

"  'Sure  you  have,  old  cock,'  says  I. 

"  'And  my  arm's  as  good  as  ever,'  says  he. 

"  'Sure  it  is !     Better,'  says  I. 

"  'Listen!'  says  he. 

"And  I  listened  and — but  you  won't  believe  this 
part " 

"I  will." 

"Well,  I  heared  him  playin' !  Not  loud — not  very  near 
but  so  clear  not  one  of  the  littlest,  tinkly  notes  was  lost. 
I  never  heard  playin'  like  that — no,  mam!     And  the 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  201 

ward  was  still.  I  never  heard  the  ward  still,  like  that.  I 
think  I  went  to  sleep  listenin'.     I  don't  know." 

The  Sergeant  broke  off  here  long  enough  to  deliver 
several  orders — all  wrong.  Desire  waited  quietly  and 
presently  he  finished  with  a  jerk. 

"When  I  woke  up  in  the  mornin*,  I  was  feelin'  fine — 
fine.  The  first  thing  I  did  wa^  to  look  over  to  the  next 
cot.  But  there  was  a  screen  around  it.  ...  I  ain't  told 
the  story  to  his  folks  because  he  hasn't  got  any,"  he 
added  after  a  pause.  "And  I  kind  of  thought  it  mightn't 
comfort  his  iiancy  any — it  not  bein'  personal,  so  to 
speak." 

Desire  frankly  wiped  her  eyes.  (It  was  fortunate  that 
no  one  saw  her  do  this.) 

"It's  a  beautiful  story,"  she  said. 

"Well,  if  you  think  I  ought  to  tell,  I  will.  But  if  his 
fiancy  says,  'Was  there  any  message?'  hadn't  I  best 
put  in  a  little  one — somethin'  comforting?" 

"Oh— no." 

"All  right.  Couldn't  I  just  say  that  at  the  end  he 
called  out  'Ameha!'?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Timms!" 

"Not  quite  playin'  the  game,  eh?  Well,  then  I  won't. 
But  it  does  seem  kind  of  skimp  like.  .  .  .  There's  the 
doctor  waitin'  at  the  gate." 


XXV 

TT  seemed  to  Desire,  waiting  in  the  garden,  that  the 
-■-  Sergeant  was  taking  an  unnecessarily  long  time  in 
telling  his  story.  She  had  thought  it  best  that  he  should 
be  left  alone  to  tell  it,  so  the  doctor  had  gone  on  to  visit 
another  patient,  promising  to  call  for  her  as  he  came 
back. 

Desire  waited.  And,  as  she  waited,  she  thought. 
And,  as  she  thought,  she  questioned.  What  had  Benis 
meant  when  he  had  said,  in  that  whimsical  way  of  his, 
''Well,  my  dear,  it  is  your  idea"?  If  he  had  not  ap- 
proved of  it,  why  hadn't  he  said  so?  It  had  seemed 
such  a  sensible  idea.  An  idea  of  which  anyone  might 
approve.  .  .  .  Why  also  had  Sergeant  Timms  been  so 
reluctant  to  approach  Miss  Martin  with  the  bare  (and, 
Desire  thought,  beautiful)  truth?  Because  he  feared  it 
would  rob  her  of  an  illusion?  But  illusions  are  surely 
something  which  people  are  better  without? — aren't 
they? 

The  Sergeant  came  at  last,  twirling  his  cap  and  look- 
ing hot. 

''Well?"  asked  Desire  nervously. 

"She'd  like  you  to  go  in,  Mrs.  Spence,  if  you  can 
spare  the  time.  She  took  it  quite  quiet.  'Thank  you, 
Sergeant,'  says  she.     And  never  a  question." 

The  two  looked  at  each  other  and  Desire  saw  her  own 
doubt  plainly  reflected  upon  the  honest  gaze  of  Robert 
Timms. 

"I'll  go  in,"  she  said.  *'The  doctor  will  take  me 
home." 

In  the  invalid's  room  there  was  only  quietness.     Miss 

202 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  203 

Martin  sat  in  her  chair  by  the  window;  her  plain,  thin 
face  had  not  sought  to  turn  from  the  searching  light. 
Desire  felt  her  heart  begin  to  beat  with  the  beginnings 
of  an  understanding  as  new  as  it  was  revealing. 

''Don't  be  sorry,"  Miss  Martin's  reassurance  was  in- 
stant. *'I  am  glad  to  know.  ...  I  always  did  know, 
anyway  .  .  .  and  it  did  not  make  any  difference  .  .  . 
If  you  can  understand." 

Desire  nodded.  "He  must  have  been  very  wonder- 
ful," she  said.  In  that  new  and  nameless  understanding 
she  forgot  that  only  that  morning  she  had  referred  to 
the  dead  musician  as  a  "derelict"  and  "no  good  for 
anything." 

"Yes,"  said  the  invalid  musing.  "Not  quite  like  the 
rest  of  us.  And  I  see  now  that  he  never  would  have 
been.  I  used  to  think — but  the  difference  was  too  deep. 
It  was  fundamental.  ...  I  feel  ...  as  if  he  knew  it  .  .  . 
and  just  wandered  on." 

"But  you?"  Desire  ventured  this  almost  timidly. 
The  quietness  seemed  to  intensify  in  the  room.  Then 
the  invalid's  voice,  serene,  distant. 

"I?  .  .  .  There  is  no  hurry.  .  .  .  He  has  his  fiddle, 
you  see.  .  .  ."  Miss  Martin  smiled  and  the  smile  held 
no  bitterness.  So  might  a  mother  have  smiled  over  a 
thoughtless  child  who  turns  away  from  a  love  he  is  too 
young  to  value. 

Desire  was  silent. 

"I  did  not  know  love  was  like  that,"  she  said  after  a 
long  pause.  "But  perhaps  I  do  not  know  anything  about 
love  at  all." 

The  older  woman  looked  at  her  with  quiet  scrutiny. 

"You  will,"  she  said. 

After  that  they  talked  of  other  things  until  the  doctor 
came  to  take  Desire  home. 

"Queer  thing,"  he  said  as  he  threw  in  the  clutch,  "I 


204  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


believe  she  looks  a  little  better  already.     That  was  an 
excellent  idea  of  yours." 

"It  was  anything  but  an  excellent  idea."  Desire's  tone 
was  taut  with  emotional  reaction.  "Fortunately,  it  did 
no  harm.  But  I  don't  know  what  you  were  thinking  of 
to  allow  it." 

"Allow  it?"  In  surprised  injury. 
Desire  did  not  take  up  the  challenge.  She  was  look- 
ing, he  thought,  unusually  excited.  There  was  faint 
color  on  her  cheek.  Her  hands,  generally  so  quiet, 
clasped  and  unclasped  her  handbag  with  an  irritating 
click.  Being  a  wise  man,  Rogers  waited  until  the  click- 
ing had  subsided.  Then,  "What's  the  matter?"  he  asked 
mildly. 

"John,"  said  Desire,  "do  you  know  anything  about 
love?" 

"I  see  you  do,"  she  added  as  the  car  leapt  forward, 
narrowly  missing  a  surprised  cow.  "So  perhaps  you 
will  laugh  at  my  new  wisdom.  I  learned  something  to- 
day." 

The  car  was  giving  trouble.  For  a  few  moments  its 
eccentricities  required  its  driver's  undivided  attention. 
Even  when  it  was  running  smoothly  again,  he  appeared 
preoccupied.  But  Desire  was  seldom  in  a  hurry.  She 
waited  until  he  was  quite  ready. 

"You  learned  something — about  love?"  asked  John 
gruffly. 

"Yes.  Have  you  a  sore  throat?  Your  voice  sounds 
all  dusty.  I  used  to  think,"  she  went  on  dreamily,  "that 
love  was  something  that  came  from  outside.  That  it 
depended  on  things.  But  it  doesn't  depend  on  anything 
and  it's  not  outside  at  all." 

"And  you  found  this  out,  today?" 
"Yes.     I  saw  it,  in  Miss  Martin.     It  was  quite  plain. 
What  idiots  we  were  to  pity  her  1" 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  205 

"Did  we  pity  her  ?'^ 

The  question  was  mechanical.  John  was  not  think- 
ing of  Miss  Martin.  He  was  thinking  of  the  faint  rose 
upon  Desire's  half-turned  cheek.     Desire  blushing! 

'*0f  course  we  did.  And  we  had  no  right.  And  there 
is  no  need." 

''Don't  let's  do  it,  then,"  said  John.  Out  of  the  cor- 
ner of  his  eye  he  saw,  with  a  quickening  of  his  pulse,  how 
stirred  she  was.  And  his  wonder  mounted.  That  De- 
sire, of  the  cool,  grey  eyes  and  unwarmed  smile,  should 
speak  of  love  at  all  was  sufficiently  amazing,  but  that  she 
should  speak  of  it  with  tinted  cheek  was  a  miracle. 

Yet  this,  he  quickly  remembered,  was  something  which 
he  had  himself  foreseen.  He  had  never  really  accepted 
Spence's  theory  that  early  disillusion  had  seriously  poi- 
soned the  lifesprings  natural  to  her  age.  Her  awaken- 
ing had  been  certain.  He  had  warned  Spence  that  she 
would  wake!  He  felt  all  the  exultation  of  a  prophet 
who  sees  his  prophecy  fulfilled.  But  common  sense  urged 
caution.  To  frighten  her  now  might  be  fatal.  He  tried 
to  bring  his  mind  back  to  Miss  Martin. 

*'At  least,"  he  said,  ''our  intentions  were  admirable. 
We  were  trying  to  help  her." 

"We  were  being  very  impertinent,"  affirmed  Desire. 
"Benis  told  me  so  this  morning." 

"Benis  told  you?"  in  surprise. 

"Well,  he  didn't  exactly  tell  me.  But  I  am  sure  he 
wanted  to." 

This  was  too  subtle  for  the  doctor.  There  were  times 
w^hen  he  frankly  admitted  his  inability  to  bridge  Desire's 
conversational  chasms.  He  was  often  puzzled  by  the 
things  she  did  not  say. 

"What  was  Benis  thinking  of,"  he  said  irritably,  "to 
let  you  come  out  in  that  bread  cart?" 

Desire  laughed.     "I  hope  he  was  thinking  of  the  Sig- 


2o6  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

nificance  of  the  Totem.     But  I'm  almost  sure  he  wasn't." 

''Does  he  ever  think  of  anything  but  that  blessed  book 
of  his?" 

*T'm  afraid  he  does — occasionally." 

''You  mean,"  with  sharpened  interest,  "that  he  isn't 
quite  as  keen  on  it  as  he  used  to  be?" 

*T  mean  tliat  he  doesn't  like  me  to  work  too  hard." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Perhaps  he  does  not  wish  you  to  work 
too  hard  for  me,  either?" 

Desire  folded  her  hands  upon  her  bag  and  looked 
primly  into  space. 

"He  is  a  very  considerate  employer,"  she  remarked 
mildly.     "Take  care — you  nearly  hit  that  hen!" 

"Oh,  d— bother  the  hen!" 

"And  he  never  swears,"  added  Desire  with  gentle  dig- 
nity. 

They  drove  for  a  mile  or  so  without  remark  and  then, 
Desire,  who  had  something  to  say,  reopened  the  conver- 
sation without  rancour. 

"Don't  be  cross,"  she  said.  "As  a  matter  of  fact 
Benis  does  swear  sometimes.  He  is  nervous,  you  know. 
I  sometimes  wonder  if  it  is  all  due  to  shell  shock,  or 
whether  it  is  a  result  of  his — er — other  experience." 

For  the  second  time  that  day  the  car  skidded.  And 
for  the  second  time,  its  unfortunate  driver  was  called 
upon  to  give  it  his  whole  attention.     Desire  waited. 

"I  mean  his  former  love  affair,"  said  she  when  con- 
versation was  again  possible. 

"His — I  don't  know,"  said  John  weakly. 

Desire  looked  sceptical. 

"Don't  fancy  I  want  to  question  you,"  she  said  with 
haughtiness.  "But  I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  know- 
ing. You  are  his  doctor.  And  his  friend,  too.  He 
must  have  told  you.     Didn't  he  ?" 

"He  mentioned  something — er — that  is  to  say " 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  207 

''Oh,  don't  hesitate!  Don't  fancy  that  I  mind.  I 
don't,  of  course.  And  I  am  not  curious.  Although  any- 
one might  be  curious.  I  won't  ask  you  questions.  I 
am  only  mildly  interested.  It  is  entirely  for  his  own 
good  that  I  should  like  to  know  if  she  is  quite  as  won- 
derful as  he  thinks.     Is  she,  John?" 

"I — I  don't  know,"  stammered  the  wretched  John. 

Desire  nodded  patiently. 

"You  mean  you  don't  know  how  wonderful  he  thought 
her?     But  did  you  think  her  very  wonderful,  John?" 

"No,  I  didn't." 

"You  thought  her  plain?" 

"No,  I— I  didn't  think  of  her  at  all." 

"You  mean  that  you  found  her  insignificant?" 

The  doctor  made  a  sound  which  Desire  was  pleased 
to  interpret  as  assent. 

"I'm  not  surprised/'  said  she  earnestly.  "Because, 
from  the  description  Benis  gave,  I  felt  sure  he  was  ex- 
aggerating. Not  that  it  makes  any  difference,  because, 
if  he  thought  she  was  like  that,  what  she  really  was  like 
didn't  matter.  That,"  with  plaintive  triumph,  "is  one  of 
the  things  I  learned  today." 

The  doctor  said  nothing.  It  was  the  only  thing  which 
he  felt  it  safe  to  say. 


XXVI 

THE  professor  was  smoking  under  the  maples  by 
the  front  steps  when  the  car  drove  up.  He  looked 
very  cool,  very  comfortable  and  very  sure  of  himself 
— entirely  too  sure  of  himself,  in  John's  opinion.  John, 
who  at  the  moment,  felt  neither  cool  nor  comfortable, 
and  anything  but  sure,  observed  him  with  envy  and  pity. 
Envy  for  so  obvious  a  content,  pity  for  an  ignorance 
which  made  content  possible. 

Spence,  on  his  part,  seemed  unaware  of  a  certain  tense- 
ness in  the  attitude  of  both  Desire  and  John,  a  symptom 
which  might  have  suggested  many  things  to  a  reflective 
mind. 

"You  look  frightfully  *het  up,'  Bones,"  he  said.  "And 
your  collar  is  wilting.  Better  pause  in  your  mad  career 
and  have  some  tea." 

"Thanks,  can't.  Office  hours — see  you  later,"  jerked 
the  doctor  rapidly  as  he  turned  his  car. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  to  John  to  bring  on  an 
attack  of  'office  hours'  at  this  time  of  day?"  asked  Spence 
as  he  and  Desire  crossed  the  lawn  together.  "Wasn't 
the  great  idea  a  success?" 

"John  thinks  it  was." 

It  was  so  unlike  Desire  to  give  someone  else's  opinion 
when  asked  for  her  own  that  the  professor  said  "um." 

"I  suppose,"  she  added  stiffly,  "it  is  a  question  of  val- 
ues." 

"Something  for  something — and  a  doubt  as  to  whether 
one  pays  too  dear  for  the  whistle?  Well,  don't  worry 
about  it.     If  you  could  not  help,  you  probably  could 

208 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  209 

not  hurt,  either.  ...  I  had  a  letter  from  Li  Ho  this 
afternoon." 

"A  letter!"  Desire's  swift  step  halted.  Her  eyes, 
wide  and  startled,  questioned  him.  "A  letter  from  Li 
Ho?     But  Li  Ho  can't  write — in  English." 

"Can't  he?  Wait  until  you've  read  it.  But  I  shan't 
let  you  read  it,  if  you  look  like  that." 

''Like  what?  Frightened?  But  I  am  frightened.  I 
can't  help  it.  I  know  it's  foolish.  But  the  more  I  for- 
get— the  worse  it  is  when  I  remember." 

''You  must  get  over  that.  Sit  here  while  I  fetch  the 
letter.     Aunt  is  out.     I'll  tell  Olive  to  bring  tea." 

Desire  sat  where  he  placed  her.  It  was  very  pleasant 
there  with  the  green  slope  of  the  lawn  and  the  cool 
shadow  of  trees.  But  her  widely  opened  eyes  saw  noth- 
ing of  its  homely  peace.  They  saw,  instead,  a  curving 
stretch  of  moonlit  beach  and  a  trail  which  wound  up- 
wards into  thick  darkness.  Ever  since  she  had  broken 
away,  that  vision  had  haimted  her,  now  near  and  men- 
acing, now  dimmer  and  farther  off,  but  always  there  like 
a  spectre  of  the  past. 

'Tt  hasn't  let  me  go — it  is  there  always — waiting," 
thought  Desire.  And  in  the  still  warmth  of  the  garden 
she  shivered. 

The  sense  of  Self,  which  is  our  proudest  possession, 
receives  some  curious  shocks  at  times.  Before  the  mys- 
tery of  its  own  strange  changing  the  personality  stands 
appalled.  The  world  swings  round  in  chaos  before  the 
startled  question,  "Who  am  I — where  is  that  other  Self 
that  once  was  I?" 

Only  a  few  months  separated  Desire  from  her  old 
life  in  the  mountain  cottage  and  already  the  mental  and 
spiritual  separation  seemed  infinite.  But  was  it?  Was 
there  any  real  separation  at  all?  That  ghost  of  herself, 
which  she  had  left  behind  on  the  moonlit  beach,  was  it 


210  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


not  still  as  much  herself  as  ever  it  had  been  ?  Behind  the 
shrouding  veil  of  the  present  might  not  the  old  life  still 
live,  and  the  old  Self  wander,  fixed  and  changeless?  It 
was  a  fantastic  idea  of  Desire's  that  the  girl  she  had 
been  was  still  where  she  had  left  her,  working  about  the 
log-walled  rooms,  or  wandering  alone  by  the  shining 
water.  This  Self  knew  no  other  life,  would  never  know 
it — ^had  no  lot  or  part  in  the  new  life  of  the  new  De- 
sire. Yet  in  its  background  she  was  always  there,  a 
figure  of  fate,  waiting.  Through  the  pleasant,  busy  days 
Desire  forgot  her — almost.  But  never  was  she  quite  free 
from  the  pull  of  that  unsevered  bond. 

Until  today  there  had  been  no  actual  word  from  the 
discarded  past.  Dr.  Farr  had  not  replied  to  Desire's 
brief  announcement  of  her  marriage.  She  had  not  ex- 
pected that  he  would.  And  for  the  rest,  Spence  had  ar- 
ranged with  Li  Ho  for  news  of  anything  which  might 
concern  the  old  man's  welfare. 

"Here  is  the  letter,"  said  Benis,  breaking  in  upon  her 
musing.  "You  will  see  that,  if  the  clear  expression  of 
thought  constitutes  good  English,  Li  Ho's  English  is 
excellent." 

He  handed  her  a  single  sheet  of  blue  note  paper,  beau- 
tiful with  a  narrow  purple  border  and  the  very  last  word 
in  "chaste  and  distinctive"  stationery. 

"Honorable  Spence  and  Respected  Sir" — wTote  Li  Ho 
— "I  address  husband  as  is  propriety  but  include  to  Missy 
wishes  of  much  happiness.  Honorable  Boss  and  father 
is  as  per  accustomed  but  no  different.  Admirable  Sami 
child  also  of  strong  appetite  when  last  observed.  De- 
parture of  Missy  is  well  to  remain  so.  Moon-devil  not 
say  when,  but  arrive  spontaneous.  This  insignificant 
advise  from  worthless  personage  Li  Ho." 

Desire  handed  back  the  letter  with  a  hand  that  was 
not   quite    steady.      The   professor    frowned.      He    had 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  211 

hoped  that  she  was  beginning  to  forget.  But,  with  one 
so  unused  to  self-revelation  as  Desire,  it  had  been  dif- 
ficult to  tell.  He  had  thought  it  unwise  to  question  and 
he  had  never  pressed  any  comparison  between  her  life 
as  it  was  and  as  it  had  been.  Better,  he  thought,  to 
let  all  the  old  memories  die.  They  were,  he  fancied,  not 
very  tellable  memories,  being  compounded  not  so  much 
of  word  and  deed  as  of  those  more  subtle  things  without 
voice  or  being  which  are  no  less  terribly,  evilly,  real  and 
whose  mark  remains  longest  upon  the  soul.  Even  com- 
plete understanding  would  not  help  him  to  rub  out  these 
markings.  Only  that  slow  over-growing  of  life,  which 
we  call  forget  fulness,  could  do  that.  She  was  so  young, 
there  was  still  an  infinite  impulse  of  growth  within  her 
and  in  the  new  growth  old  scars  might  pass  away. 

Desire  noticing  the  new  seriousness  of  his  face  was 
conscious  of  a  pang  of  guilt.  It  seems  such  crass  in- 
gratitude to  doubt  for  one  instant  the  stability  of  the 
happiness  he  had  given  her.  Had  he  not  done  more  than 
it  had  seemed  possible  for  anyone  to  do?  From  the 
first  she  had  overflowed  with  silent  gratitude  to  him. 
There  was  wonder  yet  in  the  apparent  ease  with  which 
he  had  sauntered  into  the  prison  of  her  life  and,  with 
a  laugh  and  jest,  set  her  free.  He  had  shown  her,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  Hfe,  the  blessedness  of  receiving. 
Those  whose  nature  it  is  to  give  greatly  are  not  ungen- 
erous to  the  giving  of  others.  It  is  a  small  and  selfish 
mind  which  fears  to  take,  and  Desire  was  neither  small 
nor  selfish.  She  had  hidden  the  thanks  she  could  not 
speak  deep  in  her  heart,  letting  them  lie  there,  a  core  of 
sweetness,  sweeter  for  its  silence. 

Who  shall  say  when  in  this  secret  core  a  wonderful 
something  began  to  quicken  and  to  grow  ?  So  fine  were 
its  beginnings  that  Desire  herself  knew  them  only   as 


212  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

new  bloom  and  color,  Violets  sweeter,  the  blue  sky  bluer" 
— the  old  eternal  miracle  of  a  new-made  earth. 

She  had  called  this  new  thing  friendship  and  had  been 
content.  Only  today,  when  she  had  for  an  instant 
glimpsed  life  through  the  eyes  of  Agnes  Martin,  had 
there  seemed  possible  a  greater  word.  In  that  quiet  room 
another  name  had  whispered  around  her  heart  like  the 
first  breath  of  a  rising  wind.  She  had  not  dared  to 
listen.  Yet,  without  listening,  she  heard.  And  now, 
through  Li  Ho's  letter,  that  other  Self  who  would  have 
none  of  love,  stretched  out  a  phantom  hand  and  beckoned. 

The  professor  took  the  letter  from  her  gravely,  retain- 
ing, for  an  instant  the  unsteady  hand  that  gave  it. 

"Aren't  you  able  to  get  away  from  it  yet?"  he  asked 
kindly. 

"No.  Perhaps  I  never  shall.  When  the  memory 
comes  back  I  feel — sick.  It  is  even  worse  in  retrospect. 
W^hen  it  was  my  daily  life,  I  lived  it.  But  now  it  seems 
impossible.     Am  I  getting  more  cowardly,  do  you  think  ?" 

Spence  smiled.  'T  hope  you  are,"  he  told  her.  "When 
you  lived  under  a  daily  strain  you  were  probably  keyed 
to  a  sort  of  harmony  with  it.  Now  you  are  getting 
more  normal.     Life  is  a  thing  of  infinite  adjustment." 

"You  think  I  could  get  'adjusted'  again  if  I  had  to?" 

"You  won't  have  to.     Why  discuss  it?" 

"Because  it  puzzles  me.  Why  do  I  mind  things  more 
now  than  I  did?  I  used  to  feel  quite  casual  about 
father's  oddities.  They  never  seemed  to  exactly  matter. 
But  now,"  naively,  "I  would  so  much  like  to  have  a  father 
like  other  people." 

"That  is  more  normal,  too." 

"I  suppose,"  she  went  on,  as  if  following  her  own 
thoughts,  "what  Li  Ho  calls  the  moon-devil  is  really  a 
disease.  Have  you  ever  told  Dr.  John  about  father, 
Benis?     What  did  he  say?" 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  213 

The  professor  fidgeted.  "Oh,  nothing  much.  He 
couldn't,  you  know,  without  more  data.  But  he  thinks 
his  periodical  spells  may  be  a  kind  of  masked  epilepsy. 
There  are  some  symptoms  which  look  like  it.  The  way 
the  attacks  come  on,  with  restlessness  and  that  peculiar 
steely  look  in  the  eye,  the  unreasoning  anger  and  espe- 
cially the — er — general  indications."  The  professor 
came  to  a  stammering  end,  suddenly  remembering  that 
she  did  not  know  that  last  and  worst  of  the  moon-devil 
S}Tnptoms. 

"It  is  hereditary,  of  course,"  said  Desire  calmly. 

The  professor  jumped. 

"My  dear  girl !     What  an  idea." 

"An  idea  which  I  could  not  very  well  escape.  All 
these  things  tend  to  transmit  themselves,  do-  they  not? 
Only  not  necessarily  so.     I  seem  to  have  escaped." 

"Yes,"  shortly.  "Surely  you  have  never  sup- 
posed  " 

"No.  I  haven't.  That's  the  odd  part  of  it.  I  have 
ne\^er  been  the  least  bit  afraid.  Perhaps  it's  because  I 
have  never  felt  that  I  have  anything  at  all  in  common  with 
father.  Or  it  may  be  because  I  have  never  faced  facts. 
I  don't  know.  Even  now,  when  I  am  facing  facts,  they 
do  not  seem  really  to  touch  me.  I  never  pretended  to 
understand  father.  He  seemed  like  two  or  three  peo- 
ple, all  strangers.  Sometimes  he  was  just  a  rather  sly 
old  man  full  of  schemes  for  getting  money  without  work- 
ing for  it,  and  very  clever  and  astute.  Sometimes  he 
seemed  a  student  and  a  scholar — this  was  his  best  mood. 
It  was  during  this  phase  that  he  wrote  his  scientific  arti- 
cles and  taught  me  all  that  I  know.  His  own  knowledge 
seemed  to  be  an  orderly  confusion  of  all  kinds  of  things. 
And  he  could  be  intensely  interesting  when  he  chose. 
In  those  moods  he  treated  me  with  a  certain  courtesy 


214  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


which  may  have  been  a  remnant  of  an  earlier  manner. 
But  it  never  lasted  long." 

''And  the  other  mood — the  third  one?'* 

''Oh,  that.  Well,  that  was  the  bad  mood.  If  it  is  a 
disease  he  was  not  responsible.  So  we  won't  talk  of 
it."  Desire's  lips  tightened.  ''He  usually  went  away 
in  the  hills  when  the  restlessness  came  on.  And  I  fancy 
Li  Ho — watched." 

"Good  old  Li  Ho!" 

Desire  nodded.  "I  think  now  that  perhaps  I  did  not 
quite  appreciate  Li  Ho.  I  should  like  to  know — but 
what  is  the  use?  We  shall  never  know  more  than  we 
do." 

"Not  about  Li  Ho.  He  is  the  eternal  Sphinx  wrapped 
in  an  everlasting  yesterday.  I  suppose  he  did  not  have 
even  a  beginning?" 

Desire  smiled.  "No.  He  was  always  there.  He  is 
one  of  my  first  memories.  A  kind  of  family  famiHar. 
Sometimes  I  think  that  if  he  had  not  been  away  the 
night  my  mother  died  she  might  have  been  alive  still." 

Spence  hesitated.  "You  liave  never  told  me  about 
your  mother's  death,  you  know,"  he  reminded  her  gently. 

"Haven't  I?"  Desire  was  plainly  surprised.  "Why 
— I  thought  you  knew.  That  is  a  queer  thing  about 
you,"  she  went  on  musingly,  "I  am  always  thinking  that 
you  know  things  which  you  don't.  Perhaps  it's  because 
you  guess  so  much  without  being  told.  My  mother  died 
suddenly — of  shock.  Her  heart  was  never  strong  and 
the  fright  of  waking  to  find  a  thief  in  her  room  proved 
fatal.  It  happened  one  night  when  Li  Ho  was  away. 
W^e  hved  in  Vancouver  at  the  time  and  Li  Ho  often 
disappeared  into  Chinatown.  He  had  all  the  Oriental 
passion  for  fan-tan.  That  night  there  was  a  police  raid 
on  his  favorite  gambling  place  and  Li  Ho  was  held  till 
morning.     It  was  always  he  who  locked  the  doors  and 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


attended  to  everything  at  night.  Perhaps  it  was  known 
that  he  was  away.  But  just  what  happened  was  never 
settled,  for  my  father  was  found  unconscious  on  the 
floor  of  the  passage  outside  my  mother's  door.  He 
couldn't  remember  anything  clearly.  The  fact  that  there 
had  been  several  previous  burglaries  in  town  and  that 
there  were  valuables  missing  offered  the  only  explan- 
ation." 

The  professor  was  silent  so  long  that  Desire  added: 
"I'm  sorry.     I  should  have  told  you  before." 

''What  difference  would  it  have  made?"  He  roused 
himself.  'Tell  me  the  rest  of  it.  Did  Li  Ho  think  that 
your  mother  had  been  frightened  by  a — thief?" 

'T  suppose  so,"  in  surprise.  "Li  Ho  blamed  himself 
terribly.  He  said  it  was  his  fault.  If  they  hadn't 
known  he  was  in  the  cells  all  night  they  might  have  sus- 
pected him.  He  acted  so  queerly.  But  of  course  what 
he  meant  was  that  if  he  had  been  at  home  the  thief  would 
not  have  broken  in." 

"There  were  evidences  of  his  having  broken  in?" 

"There  was  a  window  open." 

"And  were  any  of  the  stolen  things  recovered." 

"Not  that  I  ever  heard  of.     And  yet,  I  think  perhaps 

some  of  them  were.     I  remember "     Desire  paused 

and  a  painful  flush  crept  into  her  cheek. 

"Yes  ?"  prompted  Spence  gently. 

"One  of  the  lost  things  was  an  old-fashioned  watch 
belonging  to  mother.  I  used  to  listen  to  it  ticking.  And 
once,  years  after,  I  saw  it.  Father  had  given  it  to — a 
friend  of  his.     So,  you  see,  he  must  have  got  it  back." 

"I  see."  The  professor  was  aware  of  a  pricking  along 
his  spine.  He  looked  at  the  unconscious  face  of  the  girl 
and  ventured  another  question. 

"Was  your  father  injured  at  all?" 

"His  head  was  hurt.     They  did  not  know  whether  the 


2i6  THE     Vv^INDOW-GAZER 

thief  had  struck  him  or  whether  it  was  the  fall.  He  had 
fallen  just  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  We  lived  in  a 
bungalow,  then,  and  as  I  was  asleep  in  my  little  room 
under  the  eaves,  it  was  thought  that  he  had  been  trying 
to  reach  me — what  is  the  matter?" 

The  professor  had  been  unable  to  control  an  involun- 
tary shudder. 

"Nothing,"  he  said.     ''Just  nerves." 

Desire's  smile  was  wistful.  ''It  isn't  a  pretty  story," 
she  said.  "None  of  the  stories  I  can  tell  are  pretty. 
That's  why  I  am  different  from  other  people.  But  I 
am  trying.  Perhaps  I  shall  get  to  be  more  like  them 
presently." 

The  professor  banished  his  dark  thoughts  with  an  ef- 
fort. "God  forbid!"  he  said  cheerfully.  "And  here 
comes  tea!" 


XXVII 

ONE  wonders  what  would  happen  to  our  admirable 
muddle  of  a  world,  if  even  a  minority  of  its  in- 
habitants were  suddenly  to  embrace  consistency.  It 
would,  presumably,  be  a  world  still,  but  so  changed  that 
its  best  friends  would  not  know  it.  It  is  because  every- 
body, everywhere  and  at  all  times,  acts  as  they  could  not 
logically  be  expected  to  act,  that  our  dear  familiar  chaos 
of  you-never-can-tell  continues  to  entertain  us. 

Had  Desire  possessed  consistency,  this  quaUty  so  jewel- 
like in  its  rarity,  she  would  have  realized  that,  having 
voluntarily  stepped  aside  from  woman's  natural  destiny, 
she  should  also  have  ceased  to  trouble  herself  with  those 
feminine  doubts  and  hopes  which  are  peculiar  to  it.  She 
would  have  known  that  the  position  of  secretary  to  a 
professional  man  does  not  logically  include  heart-burn- 
ings and  questionings  concerning  that  gentleman's  love 
affairs,  past  or  present.  She  would  have  refused  to 
consider  Mary.  She  would  have  been  quite  happy  in 
the  position  she  had  deliberately  made  for  herself. 

Much  as  we  would  like  to  present  Desire  in  this  thor- 
oughly sensible  light,  we  fear  that  her  action  on  the  morn- 
ing following  her  visit  to  the  invalid  Miss  Martin  would 
not  bear  us  out  in  so  doing.  For  on  that  morning,  with 
all  facts  of  the  situation  freshly  in  her  mind,  she  went 
down-town  to  Dr.  Rogers'  office  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  see  and  talk  to  Dr.  Rogers'  yellow-haired  nurse. 

"When  I  see  her  and  hear  her,"  said  Desire  to  her- 
self, *1  shall  know.  And  it  will  be  so  comfortable  to 
know."  Never  a  word,  mind  you,  about  the  incon- 
sistency of  being  uncomfortable  through  not  knowing. 

217 


2i8  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

No  attempt  at  reminding  herself  that  knowledge  was  none 
of  her  business.  No  arguing  out  of  the  matter  at  all. 
Merely  the  following  of  a  blind  impulse  to  find  Mary  if 
Mary  were  to  be  found. 

This  impulse,  which  was  wholly  foreign  to  her  natural 
habit  of  mind,  she  justified  to  herself  under  the  guise  of 
"natural  curiosity."  All  she  had  to  do  was  to  make  the 
call  seem  sufficiently  casual  and  to  time  her  arrival  at 
the  doctor's  office  at  an  hour  when  he  could  not  possibly 
be  in  it.  As  a  newcomer,  such  a  mistake  would  seem 
quite  plausible  and  could  be  passed  over  easily  with 
*'How  stupid  of  me!  I  should  have  known."  After 
that  the  nurse  would  probably  invite  her  to  wait.  And, 
even  if  she  did  not,  the  mere  exchange  of  question  and 
answer  would  probably  be  sufficiently  revealing. 

This  small  program  proceeded  exactly  as  planned  and 
Desire,  in  her  most  becoming  frock,  learned  of  the  absence 
of  Dr.  Rogers  with  exactly  the  right  degree  of  im- 
patience and  regret. 

"Please  come  in,"  said  Dr.  Rogers'  nurse  in  somewhat 
drawling  accents.  "Doctor  may  be  back  any  minute." 
Being  a  nurse  she  always  predicted  the  doctor's  arrival  no 
matter  how  certain  she  might  be  that  he  would  not 
arrive. 

Desire  hesitated,  glanced  quite  naturally  at  her  watch 
and  decided  to  wait.     "If  you  are  sure  the  doctor  won't 

be  long ?"    The  nurse  was  sure  that  he  wouldn't  be 

long. 

Here  her  interest  in  the  caller  seemed  to  cease  and  she 
became  very  much  occupied  with  a  business-hke  address- 
ing of  envelopes  at  a  desk  in  the  corner. 

Desire  looked  around  the  cool  and  pleasant  room.  It 
was  not  like  her  idea  of  a  doctor's  office,  save  perhaps 
for  a  faint  clean  smell  of  drugs.  There  were  comfortable 
chairs,  flowers  in  a  window-box,  a  table  with  a  book  or 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  219 


two  and  some  magazines.  Through  a  half-open  door,  an 
inner  office  showed — all  very  different  from  the  picture 
her  memory  showed  her  of  the  musty,  cumbered  room  in 
which  her  father  had  received  his  dwindling  patients. 
As  a  child  she  had  hated  that  room,  hated  the  hideous 
charts  of  ''people  with  their  skins  off,"  the  ponderous 
books  with  their  horrific  and  highly  colored  plates,  the 
"patients'  chair"  with  its  clinging  odor  of  plush  and  ether, 
the  untidy  desk,  the  dust  on  everything ! 

But  she  had  not  come  to  Dr.  Rogers'  office  to  indulge 
in  memory.  She  had  come  to  see  the  lady  who  was  so 
busily  addressing  envelopes  and,  after  a  decent  interval  of 
polite  abstraction,  she  devoted  herself  cautiously  to  this 
purpose. 

Nurse  Watkins,  before  Desire's  entrance,  had  not  been 
addressing  envelopes.  She  had  been  reading.  Her  book 
lay  open  upon  the  window-sill  and  Desire,  having  good 
eyes,  could  read  its  title  upside  down.  It  was  not  a  title 
which  she  knew,  nor,  if  titles  tell  anything,  did  it  belong 
to  a  book  which  invited  knowing.  Desire  felt  almost  cer- 
tain that  it  was  not  a  book  which  Mary  would  care  to 
read.  Still,  one  never  could  tell.  The  professor  had  said 
nothing  whatever  about  Mary's  literary  taste. 

Desire's  eyes  strayed,  vaguely,  from  the  book  to  its 
owner.  Only  Miss  Watkins'  profile  was  visible  but  it  was 
a  profile  well  worth  attention.  People  who  cannot 
choose  their  literature  are  often  quite  successful  with 
their  caps.  Miss  Watkins'  cap  was  just  right.  And  her 
hair  was  certainly  yellow.    Desire  frowned. 

Miss  Watkins,  looking  up,  caught  the  frown. 

"Doctor  really  can't  be  long  now,"  she  drawled  sym- 
pathetically. Desire  felt  that  the  sympathy,  like  the  as- 
surance, was  professional — an  afterglow,  perhaps  of  sym- 
pathy which  had  existed  once,  before  life  had  overdrawn 
its  account.     She  felt,  also,  that  Miss  Watkins'  nose  was 


220  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


decidedly  good.  It  was  straight,  with  the  nicest  little 
blunt  point;  and  her  eyes  were  blue — not  misty  blue,  like 
the  hills,  but  a  passable  blue  for  all  that.  Her  expres- 
sion was  cold  and  eminently  superior.  ('Trightfully 
nursey"  was  what  Desire  called  it  to  herself.)  Her  voice 
was  thin.     (Desire  was  glad  of  that.) 

''Doctor  must  have  been  kept  somewhere,"  said  the 
nurse  pursuing  her  formula.  ''Won't  you  sit  near  the 
window  ?    There's  a  breeze." 

"Thank  you."  Desire  moved  to  the  window.  "You 
must  find  it  very  peaceful  here— after  nursing  overseas." 

Nurse  Watkins  tapped  her  full  upper  lip  with  her  pen. 
"Yes,"  she  said.    "It's  very  dull." 

Desire  smiled.  Her  spirits  had  been  rising  ever  since 
her  entrance  and  she  was  now  quite  cheerful.  Pretty  as 
Miss  Mary  Watkins  undoubtedly  was,  there  was  a  some- 
thing— could  it  be  possible  that  she  chewed  gum  ?  No,  of 
course  she  could  not  chew  gum.  And  yet  there  was  an 
impression  of  gum  somewhere — an  insinuating  certainty 
that  she  might  chew  gum  on  a  dark  night  when  no  one 
was  looking.  Desire  heaved  a  little  sigh  of  satisfaction 
and,  leaning  out,  appeared  to  occupy  herself  with  the 
passers-by. 

"Aren't  Bainbridge  streets  wonderful?"  she  said. 

Nurse  Watkins'  mouth  took  on  a  discontented  droop. 
"The  streets  are  all  right,"  she  said,  "only  they  don't  go 
anywhere." 

Desire  laughed.  "Are  you  as  bored  as  that?"  she 
asked. 

"Worse.  I  wouldn't  stay  here  a  minute  if  it  weren't — 
I  mean,  if  I  hadn't  been  advised  to  rest  up  a  bit." 

Desire  looked  at  her  watch,  and  rose.  Now  that  her 
curiosity  had  been  amply  satisfied,  she  began  to  realize 
that  curiosity  is  an  undignified  thing.  And  also  that  she 
had  not  been  the  only  person  present  to  give  way  to  it. 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  221 

The  somewhat  drawhng  tones  of  Miss  Watkins'  voice 
were  not  at  all  in  keeping  with  the  activity  of  her  wide- 
awake blue  eyes.  A  sense  of  this  nurse's  speculation  as 
to  her  presence  there  flicked  Desire  with  little  whips  of 
irritation.  It  is  one  thing  to  observe  and  quite  another  to 
render  oneself  observable.  She  felt  the  blood  flow  hotly 
to  her  cheek.  Why  had  she  come?  How  could  she  have 
so  far  forgotten  her  natural  reserve,  her  instinctive  dislike 
of  intrusion?  Desire  saw  plainly  that  she  had  allowed  a 
regrettable  sentiment  to  trick  her  into  a  ridiculous  situa- 
tion.   Satisfied  curiosity  is  usually  ashamed  of  itself. 

And  how  absurd  to  have  fancied  for  a  moment  that 
this  blond  prettiness  could  be  Mary! 

*T  am  afraid  I  cannot  wait  longer,"  she  murmured  with 
polite  regret. 

''If  there  is  any  message " 

"None,  I  think.    Thank  you  so  much." 

"With  the  departure  of  her  caller.  Miss  Watkins'  man- 
ner underwent  a  remarkable  change.  Professional  cool- 
ness deserted  her.  She  stamped  her  foot  and,  from  the 
safe  concealment  of  the  window  curtain,  she  watched 
Desire's  unhurried  progress  dow^n  the  street  with  eyes  in 
which  the  blue  grew  clouded  and  opaque.  They  bright- 
ened again  as  she  noticed  Professor  Spence  passing  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  and  became  quite  snappy 
with  interest  as  she  saw  him  pause  as  if  to  call  to  his 
wife,  then,  after  a  swift  and  hesitating  glance  at  the 
door  from  which  she  had  emerged,  pass  on  without  at- 
tracting her  attention. 

As  a  bit  of  pure  pantomime,  these  expressions  of 
feeling  on  Miss  Watkins'  part  might  be  misleading  with- 
out the  added  comment  of  a  letter  which  she  wrote  that 
night. 

"I'm  going  to  cut  it,  Flossy  old  girl,"  wrote  Miss  Wat- 
kins.    "If  you  know  of  anything  near  you  that  would 


222  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


suit  me,  pass  it  on.  I  think  I'm  about  due  to  get  out  of 
here.  You  know  why  I've  stayed  so  long.  At  first,  I 
thought  if  we  were  together  enough  he  might  get  to  care. 
People  say  I'm  not  bad  for  the  eyes.  And  I  don't  use 
peroxide.  Well,  I've  made  myself  useful— he'll  miss  me 
an3^way ! 

"It's  kind  of  hard  to  give  up.  But  I  don't  believe  it's  a 
bit  of  use.  I've  noticed  a  difference  in  him  ever  since  he 
came  back  from  that  western  trip.  He  doesn't  seem  to 
see  me  anymore.  And  there's  something  else,  a  look  in 
his  eyes  and  a  line  along  his  mouth  that  were  never  there 
before.  I  knew  something  had  happened.  And  now  I 
know  what  it  was.    Another  girl,  of  course. 

**And  this  girl  is  married ! 

"You  might  think  this  would  make  things  hopeful  for 
me.  But  it  doesn't.  Doctor's  just  the  kind  that  would  go 
on  loving  her  if  she  had  a  thousand  husbands.  So  here's 
where  I  hook  it.  No  use  wasting  myself,  honey.  Maybe 
I'll  get  over  it.    They  say  everyone  does. 

''Funny  thing — she's  just  the  kind  I'd  think  he'd  go 
dippy  over,  dark  and  still,  with  a  lovely,  wide  mouth  and 
skin  like  lilies.  She  is  young,  younger  than  I  am.  But, 
believe  me,  she  isn't  a  kid.  Those  eyes  of  hers  have  seen 
things.  They're  the  kind  of  eyes  that  I'd  go  wild  over 
if  I  were  a  man.  So  I'm  not  blaming  Doctor.  He  can't 
help  it. 

''She  came  into  the  office  today,  just  like  an  ordinary 
patient.  But  I  knew  right  off  that  she'd  come  for  some- 
thing. Don't  know  yet  what  she  came  for.  She  doesn't 
give  herself  away,  that  one !  Didn't  seem  to  look  around, 
didn't  ask  questions  and  only  stayed  a  few  minutes.  Do 
you  suppose  she  could  have  come  to  see  mef  Because,  if 
she  did Well,  that  shows  where  her  interest  is. 

"Another  odd  thing — as  she  went  out,  I  saw  her  hus- 
band.    (I'll  tell  you,  in  strict  confidence,  that  her  husband 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  223 


is  Professor  Spence.  They  are  well  known  people  here. 
He  used  to  be  a  sort  of  recluse.  A  queer  chap.  Deep  as  a 
judge.)  Well,  I  saw  him  pass,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  road.  He  saw  her  and  was  just  going  to  call,  when 
it  seemed  to  strike  him  where  she  had  canie  from.  I 
couldn't  see  very  well  across  the  road,  but  he  looked  as  if 
someone  had  hit  him.  And  he  went  on  without  saying  a 
word.    Now  that  looked  queer  to  me. 

''Don't  write  and  say  that  I'm  only  guessing  at  things. 
I  may  he  mistaken,  of  course,  but  I  know  I'm  not.  And 
I'm  not  a  Pharisee  (or  whoever  it  was  that  threw  stones). 
If  she  cares  for  Doctor,  I  suppose  she  can't  help  it.  Some 
people  think  her  husband  handsome  but  I  don't.  He's 
too  thin  and  he  has  the  oddest  little  smile.  It  slips  out 
and  slips  in  like  a  mouse.  When  Dr.  John  smiles,  he 
smiles  all  over. 

''Well,  I'll  wait  a  week  or  so  to  make  sure.  Although 
I'm  sure  now.  If  I  ever  see  Doctor  look  at  her,  I'll  know. 
You  see,  I  know  how  he'd  look  if  he  looked  that  way. 
I've  kept  hoping— but  I  guess  I'd  better  take  my  ticket, 

Yours, 

"Mary.'* 

This  letter  satisfactorily  explains  the  loss,  some  weeks 
later,  of  Dr.  Rogers'  capable  nurse — a  matter  which  he, 
himself,  could  never  understand. 


XXVIII 

DESIRE  was  smiling  as  she  left  Dr.  Rogers'  office.  It 
was  a  smile  compounded  of  derision  and  relief — a 
shamefaced  smile  which  admitted  an  opinion  of  herself 
very  far  from  flattering. 

So  occupied  was  she  with  her  mental  reactions  that 
she  had  no  attention  to  spare  for  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street  and  therefore  missed  the  slightly  peculiar  action  of 
her  husband-by-courtesy.  Professor  Spence,  when  he 
had  first  caught  sight  of  his  wife  had  automatically 
paused,  as  if  to  call  or  cross  over.  It  had  become  their 
friendly  habit  to  inform  each  other  of  their  daily  plans 
and  a  cheery  ''whither  away?"  had  risen  naturally  to 
the  professor's  lips.  It  rose  to  them,  but  did  not  leave 
them,  for,  in  the  intervening  instant,  he  had  grasped  the 
fact  of  Desire's  smiling  abstraction  and  had  sought  its 
explanation  in  the  place  from  which  she  had  come.  De- 
sire calling  at  old  Bones'  office  at  this  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing? Before  he  had  recovered  from  the  surprise  of  it, 
she  had  passed. 

Time,  which  seems  so  mighty,  is  sometimes  quite  neg- 
ligible. The  most  amazing  mental  illuminations  may 
occupy  only  the  fraction  of  a  second.  A  light  flashes 
and  is  gone — but  meanwhile  one  has  seen. 

The  professor's  pause  was  hardly  noticeable.  He 
walked  on  at  once.  But  years  could  not  have  instructed 
him  more  thoroughly  than  that  one  second.  He  had 
received  a  revelation. 

Like  all  revelations,  he  received  it  in  its  entirety  and 
realized  it  piecemeal.  His  thoughts  stumbled  over  each 
other  in  confusion.  .  .  ,  Desire  at  John's  office  at  this 

224 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  225 

unusual  hour?  .  .  .  Desire  in  her  prettiest  frock  and 
smiling  .  .  .  smiling,  and  so  lost  in  her  own  thoughts 
that  she  saw  no  one  .  .  .  Desire  .  .  .  John  ?  .  .  .  What 
the  devil ! 

Spence  had  a  finicky  dislike  of  strong  language.  He 
thought  it  savored  of  weakness,  yet  he  found  himself 
swearing  heartily  as  he  hurried  on — meaningless  swears 
which  by  their  very  childishness  brought  him  back  to 
common  sense.  His  step  slowed,  he  forced  himself  to  be 
reasonable.  He  took  a  brief  against  his  own  unwar- 
ranted disturbance  of  mind  and  reduced  it  to  argument. 
There  was  nothing  at  all  strange,  he  pointed  out,  in  Desire 
having  called  at  old  Bones'  office  at  this,  or  any  other, 
time  of  day  (but  what  under  heaven  did  she  do  it  for?). 
She  might  easily  have  forgotten  to  tell  the  doctor  some- 
thing. (What  in  thunder  would  she  have  to  tell  him?) 
She  might  have  dropped  in,  in  passing  (at  that  hour  of  the 
morning?)  merely  to  ask  him  over  for  some  tennis  (was 
the  dashed  telephone  out  of  order?).  Or  she  might  have 
felt  a  trifle  seedy  (pshaw!  her  health  was  perfect — 
idiot!).  Anyway  she  had  a  perfect  right  to  see  Dr. 
Rogers  at  any  time  and  for  any  reason  she  might  choose. 
(Yes,  she  had — that  was  the  devil  of  it!) 

At  this  point  of  his  argument  the  professor  was  nearly 
run  down  by  a  delivery  boy  on  a  bicycle  and  saved  himself 
only  by  a  sharp  collision  with  a  telegraph  pole.  This 
served  to  clear  his  brain  somewhat.  His  confusion  of 
thought  dropped  away.  He  began  to  look  his  revelation 
in  the  face 

"Desire— John?" 

It  was  certainly  possible!  Why  had  he  never  seen  it 
before?  ...  He  had  been  warned.  John  himself  had 
warned  him — Old  John  who  had  been  so  palpably  "hit" 
when  he  had  first  seen  Desire  at  Friendly  Bay.  But  he, 
Benis  Spence,  had  laughed.    Honestly  laughed.    No  pos- 


226  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

sibility  of  this  possibility  had  troubled  him.  He  simply 
had  not  seen  it.  And  now — he  saw.  The  thing  italicised 
itself  on  his  brain. 

Granted  that  Desire  might  love,  there  was  no  reason 
on  earth  why  she  should  not  love  John. 

The  conclusion  seemed  childishly  simple  and  yet  he 
had  never  seriously  considered  it.  Why?  Relentlessly 
he  forced  himself  to  answer  why.  It  was  because  he  had 
believed  that  when  Desire  woke  to  love,  if  she  should  so 
wake,  she  would  wake  to  love  for  him !  He  tore  this  ad- 
mission out  of  a  shrinking  heart  and  laughed  at  it.  It 
was  funny,  quite  funny  in  its  ridiculous  conceit.  .  .  .  But 
it  hadn't  been  conceit,  it  had  been  assurance.  Impossible 
to  account  for,  and  absurd  as  it  seemed  now,  it  was  some- 
thing higher  than  vanity  which  had  hidden  in  his  heart 
that  happy  sense  of  kinship  with  Desire  which  had  made 
John's  warning  seem  an  emptiness  of  words. 

It  was  gone  now,  that  wonderful  sense  of  ''belonging," 
swept  away  in  the  swift  rush  of  startled  doubt.  Search- 
ing as  it  might,  his  mind  could  not  find  anywhere  the 
faintest  foothold  for  a  belief  that  Desire,  free  to  choose, 
should  turn  to  him  and  not  to  another. 

"I  had  better  go  and  sleep  this  off  somewhere,"  mur- 
mured the  professor  with  a  wry  smile.  ''Mustn't  let  it 
get  ahead  of  me.  Mustn't  make  any  more  mistakes.  This 
needs  thinking  out — steady  now !" 

He  tried  to  forget  his  own  problem  in  thinking  of  hers. 
It  couldn't  be  very  pleasant  for  her — this.  And  yet  she 
had  been  smiling  as  she  came  out  of  John's  office.  Per- 
haps she  did  not  know  yet?  On  second  thoughts,  he  felt 
sure  that  she  did  not  know.  He  recognized  the  essentials 
of  Desire.  She  was  loyalty  itself.  And  had  he  not  reason 
to  know  from  his  own  present  experience  that  the  be- 
ginnings of  love  can  be  very  blind. 

John,  too — but  with  John  it  was  different.     John  had 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  227 


given  his  warning.  If  the  warning  were  to  be  justified 
he  could  not  blame  John.  He  could  not  blame  anyone 
save  his  own  too  confident  self.  Why,  oh  why,  had  he 
been  so  sure  ?  Had  he  not  known  that  love  is  the  most 
unaccountable  of  all  the  passions?  How  had  he  dared 
to  build  security  on  that  subtle  thing  within  himself 
which,  without  cause  or  reason,  had  claimed  as  his  the 
unstirred  heart  of  the  girl  he  had  married. 

Spence  returned  home  with  lagging  step.  The  old 
distaste  for  familiar  things,  which  he  thought  had  gone 
with  the  coming  of  Desire,  w^as  heavy  upon  him.  The 
gate  of  his  pleasant  home  shut  behind  him  like  a  prison 
gate.  In  short,  Benis  Spence  paid  for  a  moment's  en- 
lightenment with  a  bad  day  and  a  night  that  was  no 
better. 

By  the  morning  he  had  won  through.  One  must  carry 
on.  And  the  advantage  of  a  quiet  manner  is  that  no  one 
notices  when  it  grows  more  quiet. 

Desire  was  already  in  the  library  when  he  entered  it. 
She  looked  very  crisp  and  cool.  It  struck  Spence  for  the 
first  time  that  she  was  dressing  her  part — the  neat,  dark 
skirt  and  laundered  blouse,  blackbowed  at  the  neck  in  a 
perfect  orgy  of  simplicity,  were  eminently  secretarial. 
How  beautifully  young  she  was ! 

Desire  looked  up  from  her  note-book  with  business-like 
promptitude. 

'T  think,"  she  said,  *'that  we  are  quite  ready  to  go  on 
with  the  thirteenth  chapter." 

''But  I  think,"  said  Benis,  ''that  it  would  be  much  nicer 
to  go  fishing." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  it's  Friday,  for  one  thing.  Do  you  really  think 
it  safe  to  begin  the  thirteenth  chapter  on  a  Friday?" 

His  secretary's  smile  was  dutiful,  but  her  lips  were 
firm.     ''We  didn't  do  a  thing  yesterday,"  she  reminded 


228  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

him.  "I  couldn't  find  you  anywhere  and  no  one  knew 
where  you  were." 

"I  was — just  around,"  vaguely. 

''Not  around  here,"  Desire  was  uncompromising. 
"Benis,  I  think  w^e  should  really  be  more  businesslike. 
We  should  have  talked  this  thirteenth  chapter  over  yes- 
terday. I  see  you  have  a  note  here  for  some  opening 
paragraphs  on  The  Apprehension  of  Color  in  Primitive 
Minds " 

A  cascade  of  goblin  laughter  from  Yorick  interrupted 
her. 

"Yorick  is  amused,"  said  Benis.  "He  knows  all  about 
the  apprehension  of  color  in  primitive  minds.  He  advises 
us  to  go  fishing." 

Desire  watched  him  stroke  the  bird's  bent  head  with  a 
puzzled  frown. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  joke  about — this,"  she  said 
slowly.  "You  don't  want  that  habit  of  mind  to  affect 
your  serious  work." 

Spence  looked  up  surprised. 

"The  whole  character  of  the  book  is  changing,"  went 
on  Desire  resolutely.  "It  will  all  have  to  be  revised  and 
brought  into  harmony.  I'm  sure  you've  felt  it  yourself. 
In  a  book  like  this  the  treatment  must  be  the  same 
throughout.  I've  heard  you  say  that  a  hundred  times. 
It  doesn't  matter  what  the  treatment  is,  the  necessary 
thing  is  that  it  be  consistent.    Isn't  that  right?" 

"Certainly." 

"Well— yours  isn't!" 

Spence  forgot  the  parrot  (who  immediately  pecked 
his  finger).  He  almost  forgot  that  he  had  suffered  an 
awakening  and  had  passed  a  bad  night.  Desire  interested 
him  in  the  present  moment  as  she  always  did.  She  was — 
what  was  she?  "Satisfying"  was  perhaps  the  best  word 
for  it.    Just  to  be  with  her  seemed  to  round  out  life. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  229 

*Trove  it!"  said  he  with  some  heat. 

For  half  an  hour  he  listened  while  she  proved  it  with 
great  energy  and  a  thorough  knowledge  of  her  facts. 
He  listened  because  he  liked  to  listen  and  not  because 
she  was  telling  him  anything  new.  He  knew  just  where 
his  ''treatment"  of  his  material  had  changed,  and  he  knew, 
as  Desire  did  not,  what  had  changed  it.  For  the  change 
was  not  really  in  the  treatment  at  all,  but  in  himself. 

This  book  had  been  his  earHest  ambition.  It  had  been 
the  sole  companion  of  his  thoughts  for  years.  It  had 
been  the  little  idol  w^hich  must  be  served.  Without  a 
word  of  it  being  written,  it  had  grown  with  his  grow^th. 
His  notes  for  it  comprised  all  that  he  had  filched  from 
life.  He  had  not  hurried.  He  was  leisurely  by  nature. 
Then  had  come  the  war,  lifting  him  out  of  all  the  things 
he  knew.  And,  after  the  war,  its  great  weariness.  Not 
until  he  had  met  Desire  and  found,  in  her  fresh  interest, 
something  of  his  own  lost  enthusiasm,  had  he  been  able 
to  work  again.  Then,  in  a  glow  of  recovered  energy, 
the  book  had  been  begun.  And  all  had  gone  well  until 
the  book's  inspirer  had  begun  to  usurp  the  place  of  the 
book  itself.  (Spence  smiled  as  he  realized  that  Desire 
was  painstakingly  tracing  the  course  of  her  self-caused 
destruction.)  How  could  he  think  of  the  book  when  he 
wanted  only  to  think  of  her?  Insensibly,  his  gathered 
facts  had  begun  to  lose  their  prime  importance,  his  de- 
ductions had  lost  their  sense  of  weight,  all  that  he  had 
done  seemed  strangely  insignificant — it  was  like  looking 
at  something  through  the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope.  The 
great  book  was  a  star  which  grew  steadily  smaller. 

The  proportion  was  wrong.  He  knew  that.  But  at 
present  he  could  do  nothing  to  readjust  it.  Two  in- 
terests cannot  occupy  the  same  space  at  the  same  time. 
The  book  interest  had  simply  succumbed  to  an  interest 
older  and  more  potent. 


230  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

"In  this  chapter,  the  Sixth,"  Desire  was  saying,  "you 
seem  to  lose  some  of  the  serious  purpose  which  is  a  promi- 
nent note  in  the  opening  chapters.  You  begin  to  treat 
things  casually.  You  almost  allow  yourself  to  be  humor- 
ous. Now  is  this  supposed  to  be  a  humorous  book,  or 
is  it  not?" 

''Oh— not.     Distinctly  not.*' 

*'Well  then,  don't  you  see?  If  you  had  treated  the 
thing  in  that  semi-humorous  manner  all  through  and  con- 
tinued in  that  vein  you  would  produce  a  certain  definite 
type  of  book.    The  critics  would  probably  say " 

'T  know,  spare  me !" 

"They  would  say,"  sternly,  "that  'Professor  Spence  has 
a  light  touch.'  That  'he  has  treated  his  subject  in  a 
popular  manner.'  "  (The  professor  groaned.)  "But  that 
isn't  a  patch  upon  what  they  will  say  if  you  mix  up  your 
styles  as  you  are  doing  at  present." 

"But — well,  what  do  you  advise?" 

Desire  sucked  her  pencil.  (He  had  given  up  trying  to 
cure  her  of  this  poisonous  habit.) 

"I've  thought  about  that.  If  you  were  not  so — so  tem- 
peramental, I  would  say  go  back  and  begin  again.  But 
that  is  risky.  It  will  be  better  to  go  on,  I  think,  trying 
to  recapture  the  more  serious  style,  until  the  whole  book 
it  at  least  in  some  form.  Then  you  will  know  exactly 
where  you  are  and  what  is  necessary  to  harmonize  the 
whole.  You  can  then  rewrite  the  'off'  chapters,  bringing 
them  into  line.  This  is  a  recognized  literary  method,  I 
believe." 

"Is  it?    Good  heavens!" 

"I  read  it  in  a  book." 

"Then  it  must  be  literary.  All  right.  I'm  agreeable. 
But  at  present " 

"At  present,"  firmly,  "the  main  thing  is  to  go  on." 

"This  morning?" 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  231 


"Certainly." 

''But  I  don't  want  to  go  on  this  morning.  That  is  the 
flaw  in  your  literary  method.  It  makes  me  go  on  whether 
I  w^ant  to  or  not.  Now  the  really  top-notchers  never  do 
that.  They  are  as  full  of  stoppages  as  a  freight  train. 
Fact.    They  only  create  when  the  spirit  moves  them." 

^'Aren't  you  thinking  of  Quakers?"  suggested  Desire 
sweetly.  ''Besides  you  are  not  creating.  You  are  com- 
piling— a  very  different  thing." 

''But  what  is  the  use  of  compiling  an  off  chapter  when 
I  know  it  is  going  to  be  an  off  one?" 

Desire  threw  down  her  pencil. 

"Oh,  Benis,"  she  said.  *T  don't  like  this.  Don't  let  us 
play  with  words.  Surely  you  are  not  getting  tired — you 
can't  be." 

Her  eyes,  urgent  and  truth-compelling,  forced  an 
answer. 

'T  don't  quite  know,"  he  said.  "But  I  am  certainly 
off  work  at  present.  There  may  be  all  kinds  of  reasons. 
You  will  have  to  be  patient,  Desire." 

"Then,"  in  a  low  voice,  "it  isn't  only  indolence?" 

He  was  moved  to  candor.  "It  isn't  indolence  at  all. 
I  have  always  been  a  fairly  good  worker,  and  will  be 
again.  But  the  driving  force  has  shifted.  I  have  not 
been  doing  good  work  and  I  know  it.  The  more  I  know 
it  the  worse  the  work  will  become.  ...  It  doesn't  matter, 
really,  child,"  he  added  gently,  seeing  that  she  had  turned 
away.  "The  world  can  wait  for  the  bit  of  knowledge  I 
can  give  it." 

Desire,  whose  face  was  invisible,  took  a  moment  to 
answer  this.  When  she  did  her  voice  was  carefully  with- 
out expression. 

"Then  this  ends  my  usefulness.  You  will  not  need  me 
any  more." 

The  professor,  who  had  been  nursing  his  knee  on  the 


232  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

corner  of  the  desk,  straightened  up  so  suddenly  that  he 
heard  his  spine  cHck. 

^'What's  this?"  he  said.  (Good  heavens — ^the  girl 
was  as  full  of  surprises  as  a  grab-bag!) 

*'It  was  for  the  book  you  needed  me,  was  it  not?  That 
was  my  share  of  our  partnership." 

("Now  you've  done  it!"  shouted  an  exultant  voice  in 
the  professor's  brain.    ''Oh,  you  are  an  ass!") 

"Shut  up !"  said  Spence  irritably.  "I  wasn't  talking  to 
you,"  he  explained  apologetically.  "It's  just  a  horrid 
little  devil  I  converse  with  sometimes.     What  I  meant 

was "    He  did  not  seem  to  know  what  he  meant  and 

looked  rather  helplessly  out  of  the  window.  "Oh,  I  say," 
he  said  presently,  "you  are  not  going  to — to  act  like 
that,  are  you?  Agitation's  so  frightfully  bad  for  me. 
Ask  old  Bones." 

"You  are  not  agitated,"  said  Desire  coldly.  "Please 
be  serious." 

"I  am.  Deuced  serious.  And  agitated  too.  You 
ought  to  think  twice  before  you  startle  me  like  that — just 
when  everything  was  going  along  so  nicely." 

"I  am  only  reminding  you  of  your  own  agreement," 
stubbornly.    "I  want  to  be  of  use." 

"Very  selfish  of  you.  Can't  you  think  of  someone  else 
once  in  a  while  ?" 

"Selfish  ?    Because  I  want  to  help ?" 

"Certainly.  I  wonder  you  don't  see  it !  Think  of  the 
mornings  I've  put  in  on  this  dashed  book  just  because  you 
wanted  to  help.  I  have  to  be  polite,  haven't  I  ? — up  to  a 
point.  But  when  you  begin  to  blame  me  for  doing 
poorly  what  I  do  not  want  to  do  at  all  I  begin  to  see  that 
my  self-sacrifice  is  not  appreciated." 

"You  are  talking  nonsense." 

"Perhaps  I  am.  But  it  was  you  who  started  it.  When 
you  said  I  did  not  need  you,  you  said  a  very  nonsensical 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  233 

thing.  And  a  very  unkind  thing,  too.  A  man  does  not 
Hke  to  talk  of — his  need.  But,  now  that  we  have  come 
to  just  this  point,  let  us  have  it  out.  Surely  our  partner- 
ship was  not  quite  as  narrow  as  you  suggest  ?  The  book 
is  a  detail.  It  is  i.  part  of  life  which  will  fit  in  somewhere 
— an  important  part  in  its  right  place — but  it  isn't  the 
whole  pattern."  He  smiled  whimsically.  *'Do  not  think 
of  me  as  just  an  animated  book,  my  dear — if  you  can 
help  it.  And  remember,  no  matter  how  we  choose  to 
interpret  our  marriage,  you  are  my  wife.  And  my  very 
good  comrade.  The  one  thing  which  could  ever  change 
my  need  of  you  is  your  greater  need  of — of  someone 
else." 

The  last  words  were  casual  enough  but  the  look  which 
accompanied  them  was  keen,  and  a  sense  of  relief  rose 
gratefully  in  the  professor  as  no  sign  of  disturbance  ap- 
peared upon  the  thoughtful  face  of  his  hearer. 

'Ts  Benis  here,  my  dear?"  asked  Aunt  Caroline  open- 
ing the  door.  ''Oh  yes,  I  see  that  he  is.  Benis,  you  are 
wanted  on  the  'phone.  If  you  would  take  my  advice, 
which  you  never  do,  you  would  have  an  extension  placed 
in  this  room.  Then  you  could  always  just  answer  and 
save  Olive  a  great  deal  of  bother.  Not  that  I  think  maids 
ought  to  mind  being  bothered.  They  never  did  in  my 
time.  But  it  would  be  quite  simple  for  you,  when  you 
are  wTiting  here,  to  attend  to  the  'phone.  Perhaps  if  the 
butcher  heard  a  man's  voice  occasionally  he  might  be 
more  respectful.  I  do  not  expect  much  of  tradespeople, 
as  you  know,  but  if  the  butcher " 

*Ts  it  the  butcher  who  wishes  to  speak  to  me.  Aunt?" 

"Good  gracious,  no.  It's  long  distance.  Why  don't 
you  hurry?  .  .  .  Men  have  no  idea  of  the  value  of  time," 
she  added  as  the  professor  vanished.  "My  dear  you  must 
not  let  Benis  overwork  you.  He  doesn't  intend  to  be  un- 
kind, but  men  never  think." 


XXIX 

DESIRE  turned  back  to  her  papers  as  the  door  closed. 
But  her  manner  was  no  longer  brisk  and  business- 
like.   There  was  a  small,  hot  lump  in  her  throat. 

'It  isn't  fair,"  she  thought  passionately.  'It's  all  very 
well  to  talk,  but  it  does  make  a  difference — it  does.  If 
I'm  not  his  secretary  what  am  I?"  A  hot  blush  crimsoned 
her  white  skin  and  she  stamped  her  foot.  "I'm  not  his 
wife.    I'm  not!    I'm  not!"  she  said  defiantly. 

There  was  no  one  to  contradict  her.  Even  Yorick  was 
silent.  And,  as  contradiction  is  really  necessary  to  bellig- 
erency, some  of  the  fire  died  out  of  her  stormy  eyes.  But 
it  flared  again  as  thought  flung  thought  upon  the  em- 
bers. 

'Wife!"  How  dared  he  use  the  word?  And  in  that 
tone !  A  word  that  meant  nothing  to  him.  Nothing,  save 
a  cold,  calm  statement  of  claim.  .  .  .  Not  that  she  wanted 
it  to  mean  anything  else.  Had  she  not,  herself,  arranged 
a  most  satisfactory  basis  of  coolness  and  calmness?  (Rea- 
son insisted  upon  reminding  her  of  this.)  And  a  strict 
recognition  of  this  basis  was  precisely  what  she  wanted, 
of  course.  Only  she  wanted  it  as  a  secretary  and  not 
as  a — not  as  anything  else. 

"What's  in  a  word?"  asked  Reason  mildly.  "Words 
mean  only  what  you  mean  by  them.  Wife  or  secretary, 
if  they  mean  the  same " 

Desire  flung  her  note-books  viciously  into  a  drawer  and 
banged  it  shut. 

Why  did  things  insist  upon  changing  anyway?  She 
had  been  content — well,  almost.  She  had  not  asked  for 
more  than  she  had.     Why,  then,  should  a  cross-grained 

234 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  235 

fate  insist  upon  her  getting  less  ?  Since  yesterday  she  had 
not  troubled  even  about  Mary.  Her  self-ridicule  at  the 
absurdity  of  her  mistake  regarding  Dr.  Rogers'  pretty 
nurse  had  had  a  salutary  effect.  And  now — just  when 
everything  promised  so  well  (self-pity  began  to  cool  the 
hot  lump  in  her  throat).  And  just  when  she  had  made 
up  her  mind  that,  however  small  her  portion  of  her  hus- 
band's thought  might  be,  it  would  be  enough — well, 
almost  enough 

A  screech  from  Yorick  made  her  start  nervously. 

"Cats!"  said  Yorick.     *'0h  the  devil— cats!" 

Desire  laughed  and  firmly  dislodged  Aunt  Caroline's 
big  Maltese  cat  from  its  place  of  vantage  on  the  window- 
sill.  The  laughter  dissolved  the  last  of  the  troublesome 
lump  and  she  began  to  feel  better.  After  all,  the  book- 
weariness  of  which  Benis  had  spoken  would  probably  be  a 
passing  phase.  If  she  allowed  herself  to  go  on  creating 
mountains  out  of  molehills  she  would  soon  have  a  whole 
range  upon  her  hands. 

And  he  had  said  he  needed  her! 

Mechanically,  she  began  to  straighten  the  desk,  restor- 
ing the  professor's  notes  to  their  proper  places.  She  was 
feeling  almost  sanguine  again  when  her  hand  fell  upon 
the  photograph. 

We  say  "the"  photograph  because,  of  all  photographs 
in  the  world,  this  one  was  the  one  most  fatal  to  Desire's 
new  content.  She  picked  it  up  casually.  Photographs 
have  no  proper  place  amongst  notes  of  research.  Desire, 
frowning  her  secretarial  frown,  lifted  the  intruder  to 
remove  it  and,  lifting,  naturally  looked  at  it.  Having 
looked,  she  continued  looking. 

It  was  an  arresting  photograph.  Desire  had  not  seen 
it  before.  That  in  itself  was  surprising,  since  one  of  Aunt 
Caroline's  hardest-to-bear  social  graces  was  the  showing 
of  photographs.    She  had  quantities  of  them — tons,  De- 


236  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

sire  sometimes  thought.  They  lived  in  boxes  in  different 
parts  of  the  house,  and  were  produced  upon  most  un- 
likely occasions.  One  was  never  quite  safe  from  them. 
Even  the  spare  room  had  its  ow^n  box,  appropriately  cov- 
ered with  chintz  to  match  the  curtains. 

This  photograph.  Desire  saw  at  once,  would  not  fit 
into  Aunt  Caroline's  boxes.  It  was  too  big.  And  it  was 
very  modern.  Most  of  Aunt  Caroline's  collection  dated 
from  the  ''background"  period  of  photographic  art.  But 
this  one  was  all  person.    And  a  very  charming  person  too. 

Photographs  are  often  deceiving.  But  one  can  usually 
catch  them  at  it.  Desire  perceived  at  once  that  this 
photograph's  nose  had  been  artistically  rounded  and  that 
its  flawlessness  of  line  and  texture  owed  something  to 
retoucher's  lead.  But  looking  through  and  behind  all 
this,  there  was  enough — oh,  more  than  enough! 

With  instant  disfavor.  Desire  noted  the  perfect  ar- 
rangement of  the  hair,  the  delicate  slope  of  the  shoulder, 
the  lifted  chin,  the  tip  of  a  hidden  ear,  the  slightly  mock- 
ing, but  very  alluring,  glance  of  long,  fawn-like  eyes. 

"Another  molehill,"  thought  Desire.  And,  virtuously 
disregarding  the  instinct  leaping  in  her  heart,  she  turned 
the  fascinating  thing  face  downwards.  Probably  fate 
laughed  then.  For  written  large  and  in  very  black  ink 
across  the  back  was  the  admirably  restrained  autograph, 
"Benis,  from  Mary"  .  .  . 

Well,  she  knew  now ! 

A  very  different  person,  this,  from  the  blond  Miss 
Watkins  with  her  hard  blue  eyes  and  too,  too  dewy  lips ! 
Here  was  a  woman  of  character  and  charm.  A  woman 
fully  armed  with  all  the  witchery  of  sex.  A  woman  any 
man  might  love — even  Benis. 

Desire  did  not  struggle  against  her  certainty.  Her 
acceptance  of  it  was  as  sudden  as  it  was  complete.  Hud- 
dling back  in  her  chair,  with  the  tell-tale  photo  in  her 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  237 

hands,  she  felt  cold.  Certainty  is  a  chill  thing.  We  all 
seek  certainty  but,  when  we  get  it,  we  shiver.  The  proper 
place  for  certainty  is  just  ahead,  that  we  may  warm  our 
blood  in  the  pursuit  of  it.  Certainty  stands  at  the  end  of 
things  and  human  nature  shrinks  from  endings. 

Only  that  morning,  Desire  had  qualified  the  good  of 
her  present  state  by  the  ''if"  of  ''if  I  only  knew."  And, 
now  that  she  did  know,  the  only  unqualified  thing  was 
her  sense  of  desolation.  The  most  disturbing  of  her 
speculations  had  been  as  nothing  to  this  relentless  knowl- 
edge. Not  until  she  had  found  certainty  did  she  realize 
how  she  had  clung  to  hope. 

She  did  not  know  that  she  was  crying  until  a  tear 
splashed  hot  upon  her  hand.  She  did  not  hear  the  door 
open  as  Benis  reentered  the  room,  but  she  sprang  to  her 
feet,  alert  and  defensive,  at  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

"Crying?"  said  Benis. 

It  was  hardly  a  question.  He  had,  in  fact,  seen  the 
tear.  But  there  was  nothing  in  his  manner  to  indicate 
more  than  ordinary  concern. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Desire. 

"My  mistake.  But  what  is  it  you  are  hiding  so  care- 
fully behind  you?    Mayn't  I  see?" 

Desire  thought  quickly.  Her  denial  of  tears  had  been, 
she  knew,  quite  useless.  Besides,  she  had  heard  that  note 
of  dry  patience  in  the  professor's  voice  before.  It  came 
when  he  wanted  something  and  intended  to  get  it.  And 
he  wanted  now  to  know  the  cause  of  her  tears.  Well, 
he  would  never  know  it — never.  It  was  the  one  im- 
possible thing.  Desire's  pride  flamed  in  her,  a  white  fire 
which  would  consume  her  utterly — if  he  knew. 

"It  is  a  personal  matter,"  she  said.  (This  was  merely 
to  gain  time.) 

"It  is  personal  to  me  also." 

"I  do  not  wish  to  show  it  to  you.'* 


238  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

''No.    But — do  not  force  me  to  insist." 

These  two  wasted  but  few  words  upon  each  other.  It 
was  not  necessary.  Desire  took  a  quick  step  backward. 
And,  as  she  did  so,  the  Sesired  inspiration  came.  Directly 
behind  her  stood  the  table  on  which  lay  Aunt  Caroline's 
box  of  photographs.  If  she  could,  without  turning,  sub- 
stitute one  of  them  for  the  tell-tale  picture  in  her 
hand 

**You  will  hardly  insist,  I  think."  Her  eyes  were  on 
him,  cool  and  wary.  She  took  another  step  backward. 
He  did  not  follow  her.  There  was  a  faint  smile  on  his 
lips  but  his  face,  she  noticed  with  perturbation,  had  gone 
very  pale.  His  eyes  were  shining  and  chill,  like  water 
under  grey  skies. 

'Tlease,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 

Desire  let  her  glance  go  past  him.  "The  door!"  she 
murmured.  He  turned  to  close  it.  It  gave  her  only  a 
moment.    But  a  moment  was  all  she  needed. 

''Surely  we  are  making  a  fuss  over  nothing."  With 
difficulty  she  kept  a  too  obvious  relief  out  of  her  voice. 
He  must  not  find  her  opposition  weakened. 

"Perhaps.     But — let  me  decide,  Desire." 

"Shan't!"  said  Desire,  like  a  naughty  child. 

Fire  leapt  from  the  chill  grey  of  his  eyes. 

"Very  well,  then " 

He  took  it  so  quickly  that  Desire  gasped.  Then  she 
laughed.  She  had  never  had  anything  taken  from  her  by 
force  since  her  childhood  and  it  was  an  astonishing  ex- 
perience. Also,  she  had  not  dreamed  that  Benis  was  so 
strong.  It  hadn't  been  at  all  difficult.  And  this  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  she  had  clung  to  the  substituted  photo- 
graph with  convincing  stubbornness. 

"Well — now  you've  got  it,  I  hope  you  like  it,"  she 
said  a  little  breathlessly.  Her  eyes  were  sparkling.  She 
did  not  know  what  photo  she  had  picked  up  when  she 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  239 

dropped  the  real  one.  Probably  it  was  a  picture  of  Aunt 
Caroline  herself  or  of  some  dear  and  departed  Spence. 
Benis  would  have  some  difficulty  in  tracing  the  cause  of 
the  tears  he  had  surprised.  Fortunately  he  could  always 
see  a  joke  on  himself.     It  would  be  funny  .  .  . 

But  it  did  not  seem  to  be  funny.  Benis  was  not  laugh- 
ing.    He  had  gone  quite  grey. 

"What  is  it,  Benis?"  in  a  startled  tone.  "You  see  it 
was  just  a  mistake?  I  was  crying  because — because  I 
was  sorry  you  were  not  going  on  with  the  book.     I  just 

happened  to  have  a  photograph "    The  look  in  his 

eyes  stopped  her. 

"Please  don't,"  he  said. 

She  took  the  card  he  held  out  to  her,  glanced  at  it,  and 
choked  back  a  spasm  of  hysterical  laughter.  For  it  wasn't 
a  picture  of  Aunt  Caroline,  or  even  of  a  departed  Spence 
— it  was  a  picture  of  Dr.  John  Rogers ! 

"Gracious !"  said  Desire.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing 
else  to  say.  "Well,"  she  ventured  after  a  perplexed 
pause,  "you  can  see  that  I  couldn't  be  crying  over  John, 
can't  you?" 

"I  can  see — no  need  why  you  should,'*  said  Benis 
slowly.    "I'm  afraid  I  have  been  very  blind." 

The  girl's  complete  bewilderment  at  this  was  plain  to 
anyone  of  unbiased  judgment.  But  Spence's  judgment 
was  not  at  present  unbiased.    He  went  on  painfully. 

"I  owe  you  an  apology  for  my  very  primitive  method 
of  obtaining  your  confidence.  But  it  is  better  that  I 
should  know " 

"Know  what?    You  don't  know.    I  don't  know  myself. 

I  did  not  even  know  whose  the  photograph  was  until " 

She  hesitated  at  the  look  of  hurt  wonder  in  his  eyes. 
"You  think  I  am  lying?"  she  finished  angrily. 

"I  think  you  are  making  things  unnecessarily  difficult 
There  is  no  need  for  you  to  explain — anything." 


240  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

Desire  was  furious.  And  helpless.  She  remembered 
now  that  when  he  had  entered  the  room  he  had  certainly 
seen  her  bending  over  a  photograph.  No  wonder  her 
statement  that  she  did  not  know  whose  photograph  it 
was  seemed  uniquely  absurd.  There  was  only  one 
adequate  explanation.  And  that  explasnation  she  wouldn't 
and  couldn't  make. 

*'Very  well  then,"  she  said  loftily.  "I  shall  not  ex- 
plain." 

He  did  not  look  at  her.  He  had  not  looked  at  her 
since  handing  her  back  John's  picture.  But  he  had  him- 
self well  in  hand  now.  Desire  wondered  if  she  had 
imagined  that  greyish  pallor,  that  sudden  look  of  a  man 
struck  down.  What  possible  reason  had  there  been  for 
such  an  effect  anyway  ?    Desire  could  see  none. 

"I  came  to  tell  you,"  he  said  in  his  ordinary  voice, 
*'that  the  long  distance  call  came  from  Miss  Davis.  If  it 
is  convenient  for  you  and  Aunt,  she  plans  to  come  along 
on  the  evening  train.     Her  cold  is  quite  better." 

'The  evening  train,  tonight  ?" 

*'Yes."  He  smiled.  "She  is  a  sudden  person.  Gone 
today  and  here  tomorrow.  But  you  will  like  her.  And 
3^ou  will  adore  her  clothes." 

''Are  they  the  very  latest?" 

"Later  than  that.  Mary  always  buys  yesterday  what 
most  women  buy  tomorrow." 

"Oh,"  said  Desire.  "And  what  does  this  futurist  lady 
look  like?" 

Benis  considered.  "I  can't  think  of  anything  that  she 
looks  like,"  he  concluded.  "She  doesn't  go  in  for  re- 
semblances.   Futurists  don't,  you  know!" 

"Isn't  it  odd?"  said  Desire  in  what  she  hoped  was  a 
casual  voice.  "So  many  of  your  friends  seem  to  be 
namxcd  Mary." 

"IVe  noticed  that  myself — lately." 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  241 


"There  are- 


"  'Mary  Seaton  and  Mary  Beaton  and  Mary  Car- 
michael  and  me,'  "  quoted  Benis  gravely. 

Desire  permitted  herself  to  smile  and  turning,  still 
smiling,  faced  Aunt  Caroline;  who,  for  her  part,  was  in 
anything  but  a  smiling  humor. 

*'rm  glad  you  take  it  good-naturedly,  Desire,"  said 
Aunt  Caroline  acidly.  *'But  people  who  arrive  at  a 
moment's  warning  always  annoy  me.  I  do  not  require 
much,  but  a  few  days'  notice  at  the  least — have  you  seen 
a  photograph  anywhere  about?" 

Desire  bit  her  lips.    ''Whose  photograph  was  it.  Aunt  ?" 

"Why,  Mary  Davis'  photograph,  of  course.  The  one 
she  gave  to  Benis  when  she  was  last  here.  I  hope  you  do 
not  mind  my  taking  it  from  your  room,  Benis  ?  My  in- 
tention was  to  have  it  framed.  People  do  like  to  see 
themselves  framed.  I  thought  it  might  be  a  delicate  little 
attention.  But  if  she  is  coming  tonight,  it  is  too  late 
now.  Still,  we  might  put  it  in  place  of  Cousin  Amelia 
Spence  on  the  drawing-room  mantel.  What  do  you 
think,  my  dear  ?" 

"I  think  we  might,"  said  Desire.  Her  tone  was  ad- 
mirably judicial  but  her  thoughts  were  not.  ...  If  the 
Mary  of  the  visit  were  no  other  than  the  Mary  of  the 
faun-eyed  photograph,  why  then 

Why  then,  no  wonder  that  Benis  had  lost  interest  in 
the  great  Book! 


XXX 

To  give  exhaustive  reasons  for  the  impulse  which 
brought  Miss  Mary  Davis  to  Bainbridge  at  this  par- 
ticular time  would  be  to  delve  too  deeply  into  the  complex 
psychology  of  that  lady.  But  we  shall  not  be  far  wrong 
if  we  sum  up  the  determining  impulse  in  one  word — 
curiosity. 

The  news  of  Benis  Spence's  unexpected  marriage  had 
been  something  of  a  shock  to  more  than  one  of  his 
friends.  But  especially  so  to  Mary  Davis.  Upon  a 
certain  interesting  list,  which  Miss  Davis  kept  in  her  well- 
ordered  mind,  the  name  of  this  agreeable  bachelor  had 
been  distinctly  labelled  ''possible."  To  have  a  possibility 
snatched  from  under  one's  nose  without  warning  is  an- 
noying, especially  if  the  season  in  possibilities  threatens 
to  be  poor.  The  war  had  sadly  depleted  Miss  Davis'  once 
lengthy  list.  And  she,  herself,  was  five  years  older.  It 
would  be  interesting,  and  perhaps  instructive,  to  see  the 
young  person  from  nowhere  who  had  still  further  nar- 
rowed her  personal  territory. 

"It  does  seem  rather  a  shame,"  she  confided  to  a  select 
friend  or  two,  ''that  clever  men  who  have  escaped  the 
perils  of  early  matrimony  should  in  maturity  turn  back 
to  the  very  thing  which  constituted  that  peril." 

"You  mean  men  like  them  young?"  said  a  select  friend 
with  brutal  candor. 

"I  mean  they  like  them  too  young.  In  the  case  I'm 
thinking  of,  the  girl  is  a  mere  child.  And  quite  uncul- 
tured. What  possibility  of  intellectual  companionship 
could  the  most  sanguine  man  expect?" 

"None.     But  they  don't  want  intellectual  companion- 

242 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  243 

ship."  Another  select  friend  spoke  bitterly.  "I  used  to 
think  they  did.  It  seemed  reasonable.  As  the  basis  for  a 
whole  lifetime,  it  seemed  the  only  possible  thing.  But 
what's  the  use  of  insisting  on  a  theory,  no  matter  how  ab- 
stractly sound,  if  it  is  disproved  in  practice  every  day? 
Remember  Bobby  Wells?  He  is  quite  famous  now; 
knows  more  about  biology  than  any  man  on  this  side 
of  the  water.  He  married  last  week.  His  wife  is  a 
pretty  little  creature  who  thinks  protoplasm  another  name 
for  appendicitis." 

There  was  a  sympathetic  pause. 

"And  biology  was  always  such  a  fad  of  yours,"  sighed 
Mary  thoughtfully.  *'Never  mind!  They  are  sure  to  be 
frightfully  unhappy." 

''No,  they  won't.  That's  it.  That's  the  point  I  am 
making.    They'll  be  as  cozy  as  possible." 

Miss  Davis  thought  this  point  over  after  the  select 
friend  who  made  it  had  gone.  She  did  not  wish  to  be- 
lieve that  its  implication  was  a  true  one.  But,  if  it  were, 
if  youth,  just  youth,  were  the  thing  of  power,  then  it  were 
wise  that  she  should  reahze  it  before  it  was  too  late.  Her 
own  share  of  the  magic  thing  was  swiftly  passing. 

From  a  drawer  of  her  desk  she  took  a  recent  letter 
from  a  Bainbridge  correspondent  and  re-read  the  part 
referring  to  the  Spence  reception. 

"Really,  it  was  quite  well  done,"  she  read.  "Old  Miss 
Campion  has  a  'flair'  for  the  suitabilities,  and  now  that  so 
many  are  trying  to  be  smart  or  bizarre,  it  is  a  relief  to 
come  back  to  the  old  pleasant  suitable  things — you  know 
what  I  mean.  And  the  old  lady  has  an  air.  How  she 
gets  it,  I  don't  know,  for  the  dear  Queen  is  her  idea  of 
style.  Perhaps  there  is  something  in  the  'aura'  theory. 
If  so.  Miss  Campion's  aura  is  the  very  glass  of  fashion. 

"And  the  bride !  But  I  hear  you  are  coming  down,  so 
you  will  see  the  bride  for  yourself.     There  was  a  silly 


244 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER 


rumor  about  her  being  part  Indian.  Well,  if  Indian 
blood  can  give  one  a  skin  like  hers,  I  could  do  with  an  off- 
side ancestor  myself !  She  is  even  younger  than  report 
predicted.  But  not  sweet  or  coy  (Heavens,  how  one 
wearies  of  that  type!)  And  Benis  Spence,  as  a  bride- 
groom, has  lost  something  of  his  'moony'  air.  He  is 
quite  attractive  in  an  odd  way.  All  the  same,  I  can't 
help  feeling  (and  others  agree  with  me)  that  there  is 
something  odd  about  that  marriage.  My  dear,  they  do 
not  act  like  married  people.  The  girl  is  as  cool  as  a 
princess  (I  suppose  princesses  are).  And  the  professor's 
attitude  is  so — so  casual.  Even  John  Rogers'  manner  to 
the  bride  is  more  marked  than  the  bridegroom's.  But 
you  know  I  never  repeat  gossip.  It  isn't  kind.  And  any- 
way it  may  not  be  true  that  he  drops  in  for  tea  nearly 
every  day." 

Miss  Davis  replaced  the  letter  with  a  musing  smile. 
And  the  next  morning  she  called  up  on  long  distance.  A 
visit  to  Bainbridge,  she  felt,  might  be  quite  stimulat- 
ing. .  .  . 

Observe  her,  then,  on  the  morning  of  her  arrival  hav- 
ing breakfast  in  bed.  Breakfast  in  bed  is  always  offered 
to  travellers  at  the  Spence  home — a  courtesy  based  upon 
the  tradition  of  an  age  which  travelled  hard  and  seldom. 
Miss  Davis  quite  approved  of  the  custom.  She  had  not 
neglected  to  bring  "matinees"  in  which  she  looked  most 
charming.  Negligee  became  her.  She  openly  envied 
Margot  Asquith  her  bedroom  receptions. 

Young  Mrs.  Spence,  inquiring  with  true  western  hos- 
pitality, whether  the  breakfast  had  been  all  that  could  be 
desired,  was  conscious  of  a  pang,  successfully  repressed, 
at  the  sight  of  that  matinee.  She  saw  at  once  that  she 
had  never  realized  possibilities  in  this  direction.  Her 
night-gowns   (even  the  new  ones)    were  merely  night- 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  245 

gowns  and  her  kimonas  were  garments  which  could  still 
be  recognized  under  that  name. 

*'It  is  rather  a  duck,"  said  Mary,  reading  Desire's  ad- 
miring glance.  "Quite  French,  I  think.  But  of  course, 
as  a  bride,  you  will  have  oceans  of  lovely  things.  I  adore 
trousseaux.  Perhaps  you  will  show  me  some  of  your 
pretties?"  (The  bride's  gowns,  she  admitted,  might  be 
passable  but  what  really  tells  the  tale  is  the  underneaths. ) 

"Oh,  with  pleasure."  Desire's  assent  was  instant  and 
warm.    *T  shall  love  to  let  you  see  my  things." 

It  was  risky — but  effective.  Mary's  desire  to  see  the 
trousseau  evaporated  on  the  instant.  No  girl  would  be  so 
eager  to  show  things  which  were  not  worth  showing. 
And  Mary  was  no  altruist  to  rejoice  over  other  people's 
Paris  follies. 

After  all,  she  really  knew  very  little  about  Benis's  wife. 
And  you  never  can  tell.  She  began  to  wish  that  she  had 
brought  down  with  her  some  very  special  glories — things 
she  had  decided  not  to  waste  on  Bainbridge.  Her  young 
hostess  had  eyes  which  were  coolly,  almost  humorously, 
critical.  "Absurd  in  a  girl  who  simply  can't  have  any 
proper  criteria!"  thought  Miss  Davis  crossly. 

"When  you  are  quite  rested,"  said  Desire  kindly,  "you 
will  find  us  on  the  west  lawn.  The  sun  is  never  too  hot 
there  in  the  morning." 

"Yes — I  remember  that."  The  faintest  sigh  disturbed 
the  laces  of  Mary's  matinee.  Her  faun-like  eyes  looked 
wistful.  "But  if  you  do  not  mind,  I  think  I  shall  be 
really  lazy — these  colds  do  leave  one  so  wretched." 

Desire  agreed  that  colds  were  annoying.  She  had  not 
missed  the  sigh  which  accompanied  Mary's  memory  of 
the  west  lawn  and  very  naturally  misread  it.  Mary's  re- 
gretful decision  to  challenge  no  morning  comparison  in 
the  sunlight  on  any  lawn  was  interpreted  as  regret  of  a 
much  more  tender  nature.     Desire's  eyes  grew  cold  and 


246  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

dark  with  shadow  as  she  left  her  charming  visitor  to  her 
wistful  rest. 

That  Mary  Davis  was  the  lady  of  her  husband's  one 
romance,  she  had  no  longer  any  doubt.  Anyone,  that  is, 
any  man,  might  love  deeply  and  hopelessly  a  woman  of 
such  rare  and  subtle  charm.  Possessing  youth  in  glori- 
ous measure  herself,  Desire  naturally  discounted  her 
rival's  lack  of  it.  With  her,  the  slight  blurring  of  Mary's 
carefully  tended  *'lines,"  the  tired  look  around  her  eyes, 
the  somewhat  cold-creamy  texture  of  her  delicate  skin, 
weighed  nothing  against  the  exquisite  finish  and  fine 
sophistication  which  had  been  the  gift  of  the  added  years. 

In  age,  she  thought,  Mary  and  Benis  would  rank  each 
other.  They  were  also  essentially  of  the  same  world. 
Neither  had  ever  gazed  through  windows.  Both  had  been 
free  of  life  from  its  beginning.  Love  between  them  might 
well  have  been  a  fitting  progression. 

The  one  fact  which  did  not  fit  in  here  was  this — in  the 
story  as  told  by  Benis  the  affair  had  been  one  of  unrecip- 
rocated affection.  This  presupposed  a  blindness  on  the 
lady's  part  which  Desire  began  increasingly  to  doubt. 
She  had  already  reached  the  point  when  it  seemed  im- 
possible that  anyone  should  not  admire  what  to  her  was 
entirely  admirable.  Even  the  explanation  of  a  prior  at- 
tachment (the  "Someone  Else"  of  the  professor's  story), 
did  not  carry  conviction.  Who  else  could  there  be — 
compared  with  Benis  ? 

No.  It  looked,  upon  the  face  of  it,  as  if  there  had 
been  a  mistake  somewhere.  Benis  had  despaired  too 
soon ! 

This  fateful  thought  had  been  crouching  at  the  door 
of  Desire's  mind  ever  since  Mary  had  ceased  to  be  an 
abstraction.  She  had  kept  it  out.  She  had  refused  to 
know  that  it  was  there.  She  had  been  happy  in  spite 
of  it.     But  now,  when  its  time  w^as  fully  come,  it  made 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  247 

small  work  of  her  frail  barriers.  It  blundered  in,  leering 
and  triumphant. 

Men  have  been  mistaken  before  now.  Men  have  turned 
aside  in  the  very  moment  of  victory.  And  Benis  Spence 
was  not  a  man  who  would  beg  or  importune.  How  easily 
he  might  have  taken  for  refusal  what  was,  in  effect,  mere 
withdrawal.  Had  Mary  retreated  only  that  he  might 
pursue?  And  had  the  Someone  Else  been  No  One  Else 
at  all? 

If  this  were  so,  and  it  seemed  at  least  possible,  the  re- 
treating lady  had  been  smartly  punished.  Serve  her 
right — oh,  serve  her  right  a  thousand  times  for  having 
dared  to  trifle !  Desire  w^asted  no  pity  on  her.  But  what 
of  him?  With  merciless  lucidity  Desire's  busy  brain 
created  the  missing  acts  which  might  have  brought  the 
professor's  tragedy  of  errors  to  a  happy  ending.  It 
would  have  been  so  simple — if  Benis  had  only  waited. 
Even  pursuit  would  not  have  been  required  of  him. 
Mary,  unpursued,  would  have  come  back;  unasked,  she 
might  have  offered.    But  Benis  had  not  waited. 

Desire  saw  all  this  in  the  time  that  it  took  her  to  go 
down-stairs.  At  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  she  faced  its 
unescapable  logic :  if  he  were  free  now,  he  might  be  happy 
yet. 

How  blind  they  had  both  been!  He  to  believe  that 
love  had  passed;  she  to  believe  that  love  would  never 
come.  Desire  paused  with  her  hand  upon  the  library 
door.  He  was  there.  She  could  hear  him  talking  to 
Yorick.  She  had  only  to  open  the  door  ...  but  she 
did  not  open  it.  Yesterday  the  library  had  been  her 
kingdom,  the  heart  of  her  widening  world.  Now  it  was 
only  a  room  in  someone  else's  house.  Yesterday  she 
would  have  gone  in  swiftly — ^hiding  her  gladness  in  a 
little  net  of  everyday  words.  But  today  she  had  no 
gladness  and  no  words. 


XXXI 

MISS  DAVIS  had  been  in  Bainbridge  a  week.  Her 
cold  was  entirely  better  and  her  nerv^es,  she  said, 
much  rested.  "This  is  such  a  restful  place,"  murmured 
Miss  Davis,  selecting  her  breakfast  toast  with  care. 

"I'm  glad  you  find  it  so,"  said  Aunt  Caroline. 
'Though,    with    the    club    elections    coming    on    next 

week "  she  broke  off  to  ask  if  Desire  would  have 

more  coffee. 

Desire  would  have  no  more,  thanks.  Miss  Campion, 
looking  over  her  spectacles,  frowned  faintly  and  took  a 
second  cup  herself — an  indulgence  which  showed  that 
she  had  something  on  her  mind.  Her  nephew,  knowing 
this  symptom,  was  not  surprised  when  later  she  joined 
him  on  the  side  veranda.  Being  a  prompt  person  she 
began  at  once. 

"Benis,"  she  said,  "I  have  a  feeling — I  am  not  at  all 
satisfied  about  Desire.  If  you  know  what  is  the  matter 
with  her  I  wish  you  would  tell  me.  I  am  not  curious.  I 
expect  no  one's  confidence,  nor  do  I  ask  for  it.  But  I 
have  a  right  to  object  to  mysteries,  I  think." 

As  Aunt  Caroline  spoke,  she  looked  sternly  at  the 
smoke  of  the  professor's  after-breakfast  cigarette,  the 
blue  haze  of  which  temporarily  clouded  his  expression. 
Benis  took  his  time  in  answering. 

"You  think  there  is  something  the  matter  besides  the 
heat?"  he  inquired  mildly. 

"Heat!     It  is  only  ordinary  summer  weather." 

"But  Desire  is  not  used  to  ordinary  summer,  in  On- 
tario." 

"Nonsense.     It   can't   be  much  cooler   on   the   coast. 

248 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  249 

Although  I  have  heard  people  say  that  they  felt  quite 
chilly  there.     It  isn't  that." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

Not  noticing  that  she  was  being  asked  to  answer  her 
own  question,  Aunt  Caroline  considered.  Then,  with 
a  flash  of  shrewd  insight,  ''Well,"  she  said,  "if  there  were 
any  possible  excuse  for  it,  I  should  say  that  it  is  Mary 
Davis." 

"My  dear  Aunt!" 

"You  asked  me,  Benis.  And  I  have  told  you  what  I 
think.  Desire  has  changed  since  Mary  came.  Before 
that  she  seemed  happy.  There  was  something  about  her 
— well,  I  admit  I  liked  to  look  at  her.  And  she  seemed 
to  love  this  place.  Even  that  Yorick  bird  pleased  her, 
a  taste  which  I  admit  I  could  never  understand.  Now 
she  looks  around  and  sees  nothing.  The  girl  has  some- 
thing on  her  mind,  Benis.     She's  thinking/' 

"With  some  people  thought  is  not  fatal/* 

"I  am  serious,  Benis." 

"So  am  I." 

"What  I  should  like  to  know  is: — have  you,  by  any 
chance,  been  flirting  with  Mary?'* 

"What?" 

"Don't  shout.  You  heard  what  I  said  perfectly.  I 
do  not  wish  to  interfere.  It  is  against  my  nature.  But 
if  you  had  been  flirting  with  Mary,  that  might  account 
for  it.  I  don't  believe  Desire  would  understand.  She 
might  take  it  seriously.  As  for  Mary — I  am  ashamed 
of  her.     I  shall  not  invite  her  here  again." 

"This  is  nonsense.  Aunt." 

"Excuse  me,  Benis.  The  nonsense  is  on  your  side. 
I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  and  I  know  Mary  Davis. 
She  is  one  of  those  women  for  whom  a  man  obscures 
the  landscape.     She  will  flirt  on  her  deathbed,  or  any- 


250  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

body  else's  deathbed,  which  is  worse.  Come  now,  be 
honest.     She  has  been  doing  it,  hasn't  she  ?" 

^'Certainly  not." 

'1  suppose  you  have  to  say  that.  I'll  put  it  in  another 
way.     What  is  your  opinion  of  Mary?" 

*'She  is  an  interesting  woman." 

"You  find  her  more  interesting  than  you  did  upon  her 
former  visit?" 

''I  hardly  remember  her  former  visit.  I  never  really 
knew  her  before." 

"And  you  know  her  now?" 

"She  has  honored  me  with  a  certain  amount  of  con- 
fidence." 

Aunt  Caroline  snorted.  "I  thought  so.  Well,  she 
doesn't  need  to  honor  me  with  her  confidence  because 
I  know  her  without  it.  Was  she  honoring  you  that  way 
last  night  when  you  stayed  out  in  the  garden  until  mid- 
night?" 

"We  were  talking,  naturally." 

"And — ^your  wife?" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  while  the  cigarette  smoke 
grew  bluer.  "My  wife,"  said  Benis,  "was  very  well 
occupied." 

"You  mean  that  when  Dr.  John  saw  how  distrait  and 
pale  she  was,  he  took  her  for  a  run  in  his  car?  Now 
admit,  Benis,  that  you  made  it  plain  that  you  wished  her 
to  go." 

"Did  I?" 

"Yes,"  significantly,  "too  plain.  Mary  saw  it — and 
John.  You  are  acting  strangely,  Benis.  I  don't  like  it, 
that's  flat.  Desire  is  too  much  with  John.  And  you 
are  too  much  with  Mary.  It  is  not  a  natural  arrange- 
ment. And  it  is  largely  your  fault.  It  is  almost  as  if 
you  were  acting  with  some  purpose.     But  I'll  tell  you 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  251 

this — whatever  your  purpose  may  be — you  have  no  right 
to  expose  your  wife  to  comment." 

She  had  his  full  attention  now.  The  cigarette  haze 
drifted  away. 

"Comment?"  slowly.  "You  mean  that  people — but  of 
course  people  always  do.  I  hadn't  allowed  for  that. 
Which  shows  how  impossible  it  is  to  think  of  everything. 
I'm  sorry." 

"I  do  not  pretend  to  understand  you,  Benis.  But  then, 
I  never  did.  Your  private  affairs  are  your  own,  also 
your  motives.  And  I  never  meddle,  as  you  know.  I 
think  though,  that  I  may  be  permitted  a  straight  ques- 
tion.    Has  your  feeling  toward  Desire  changed?" 

"Neither  changed  nor  hkely  to  change." 

Miss  Campion's  expression  softened. 

"Are  you  sure  that  she  knows  it?" 

"I  am  not  sure  of  anything  with  regard  to  Desire." 

"Then  you  ought  to  be.  Don't  shilly-shally,  Benis. 
It  is  a  habit  of  yours.  All  of  the  Spences  shilly-shally. 
Make  certain  that  Desire  is  aware  of  your — er — affec- 
tion. Mark  my  w^ords — I  have  a  feeling.  She  is  fret- 
ting over  Mary." 

"I  happen  to  know  that  she  is  not." 

Small  red  flags  began  to  fly  from  Miss  Campion's 
prominent  cheek-bones. 

"We  shall  quarrel  in  a  moment,  Benis.  You  are  pig- 
headed. Exactly  as  your  father  was,  and  without  his 
common  sense.  I  know  you  think  me  an  interfering  old 
maid.  But  I  like  Desire,  and  I  won't  have  her  made 
miserable.     I  want " 

"Hush — here  she  comes." 

"I'll  leave  you  then,"  in  a  sepulchral  whisper.  "And 
for  goodness'  sake,  Benis,  do  something!  .  .  .  Were  you 
looking  for  me,  my  dear?"  added  Aunt  Caroline  inno- 
cently as  Desire  came  slowly  toward  them.     "Do  not 


252  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


try  to  be  energetic  this  morning.  It  is  so  very  hot.  Sit 
here.  I'll  send  OHve  out  with  something  cool.  I'd  like 
you  both  to  try  the  new  raspberry  vinegar." 

Greatly  pleased  with  her  simple  stratagem  the  good 
soul  bustled  away.  Desire  looked  after  her  with  a  grate- 
ful smile. 

"I  believe  Aunt  Caroline  likes  me,"  she  said  with  a 
note  of  faint  surprise. 

*ls  that  very  wonderful?" 

''Yes." 

Benis  looked  at  her  quickly  and  looked  away.  She 
was  certainly  paler.  She  held  her  head  as  if  its  crown 
of  hair  were  heavy. 

"It  does  not  seem  wonderful  to  other  people  who  also 
— Hke  you." 

Her  eyes  turned  to  him  almost  timidly.  It  hurt  him 
to  notice  that  the  old  frank  openness  of  glance  was  gone. 
Good  heavens!  was  the  child  afraid  of  him?  Did  she 
think  that  he  blamed  her?  That  he  did  not  understand 
how  helpless  she  was  before  her  awakening  womanhood? 
He  forgot  how  difficult  speech  was  in  the  overpowering 
impulse  to  reassure  her. 

'T  wish  you  could  be  happy,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "You 
are  so  young.  Can't  you  be  a  little  patient?  Can't  you 
be  content  as  things  are — for  a  while?" 

Even  Spence,  blinded  as  he  was  by  the  bitterness  of 
his  own  struggle,  noticed  the  strangeness  of  her  look. 

"You  want  things  to  go  on — as  they  are?" 

"Yes.  For  a  time.  We  had  better  be  quite  sure. 
We  do  not  want  a  second  mistake." 

"You  see  that  there  has  been  a  mistake?" 

"Can  I  help  seeing  it.  Desire?" 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  .  .  .  And  when  you  are  sure?" 
Her  voice  was  very  low. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  253 

''When  I — when  we  are  both  sure,  I  shall  act.  There 
are  ways  out.     It  ought  not  to  be  difficult." 

"No,  quite  easy,  I  think.     I  hope  it  will  not  be  long." 

His  mask  of  reasonable  acquiescence  slipped  a  little 
at  the  wist  fulness  of  her  voice. 

''Don't  speak  like  that!"  he  said  sharply.  "No  man 
is  worth  it." 

Desire  smiled.  It  was  such  a  sure,  secret  little  smile, 
that  it  maddened  him. 

"You  can't — you  can't  care  like  that!"  he  said  in  a  low, 
furious  tone.     "You  said  you  never  could !" 

"I  do,"  said  Desire. 

It  was  the  avowal  which  she  had  sworn  she  would 
never  make.  Yet  she  made  it  without  shame.  Love  had 
taught  Desire  much  since  the  day  of  the  episode  of  the 
photograph.  And  one  of  its  teachings  had  to  do  with 
the  comparative  insignificance  of  pride.  Why  should  he 
not  know  that  she  loved  him?  Of  what  use  a  gift  that 
is  never  given  ?  Besides,  as  this  leaden  week  had  passed, 
she  knew  that,  more  than  anything  else,  she  wanted 
truth  between  them.  Now,  when  he  asked  it  of  her,  she 
gave  him  truth. 

"It  is  breaking  our  bargain,"  she  went  on  with  a  wav- 
ering smile.  "But  I  was  so  sure  I  I  cannot  even  blame 
myself.  It  must  be  possible  to  be  quite  sure  and  quite 
wrong  at  the  same  time." 

"Yes.  There  is  no  blame,  anywhere.  I — I  didn't 
think  of  what  I  was  saying." 

"Well,  then — you  will  guess  that  it  isn't  exactly  easy. 
But  I  will  wait  as  you  ask  me.  When  you  are  quite 
sure — you  will  let  me  go?'* 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

Neither  of  them  looked  at  the  other. 

Does  Jove  indeed  laugh  at  lover's  perjuries?  Even 
more  at  their  stupidities,  perhaps! 


XXXII 

FOR  they  really  were  stupid!     Looking  on,  we  can 
see  so  plainly  what  they  should  have  seen,  and  didn't. 

If  thoughts  are  things  (and  Professor  Spence  con- 
tinues to  argue  that  they  are)  a  mistaken  thought  is 
quite  as  powerful  a  reality  as  the  other  kind.  Only  let 
it  be  conceived  with  sufficient  force  and  nourished  by 
continual  attention  and  it  will  grow  into  a  veritable  high- 
wayman of  the  mind — a  thievish  tyrant  of  one's  mental 
roads,  holding  their  more  legitimate  travellers  at  the 
stand  and  deliver. 

Desire,  usually  so  clearsighted,  ought  to  have  seen  that 
the  attentions  of  Benis  to  the  too-sympathetic  Mary  were 
hollow  at  the  core.  But  this,  her  mistaken  Thought  would 
by  no  means  allow.  Ceaselessly  on  the  watch,  it  leapt 
upon  every  unprejudiced  deduction  and  turned  it  to  the 
strengthening  of  its  own  mistaken  self.  What  might 
have  seemed  merely  boredom  on  the  professor's  part  was 
twisted  by  the  Thought  to  appear  an  anguished  effort 
after  self-control.  Any  avoidance  of  Mary's  society  was 
attributed  to  fear  rather  than  to  indifference.  And  so 
on  and  so  on. 

Spence,  too,  a  man  learned  in  the  byways  of  the  mind, 
ought  to  have  known  that,  to  Desire,  John  was  a  refuge 
merely,  and  Mary  the  real  lion  in  the  way.  But  his  mis- 
taken Thought,  born  of  a  smile  and  a  photograph,  grew 
steadily  stronger  and  waxed  fat  upon  the  everyday  trivi- 
alities which  should  have  slain  it.  So  powerful  had  it 
become  that,  by  the  time  of  Desire's  arrival  on  the 
veranda,  it  had  closed  every  road  of  interpretation  save 
its  own. 

^54 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  255 

Nor  was  John  in  more  reasonable  case.  His  mistaken 
Thought  was  different  in  action  but  equally  successful 
in  effect.  Born  of  an  insistent  desire,  and  nursed  by 
half  fearful  hope,  it  stood  a  beggar  at  the  door  of  life, 
snatching  from  every  passing  circumstance  the  crumbs 
by  which  it  lived.  Did  Desire  smile — how  eagerly 
John's  famished  Thought  would  claim  it  for  his  own. 
Did  she  frown — how  quick  it  was  to  find  some  foreign 
cause  for  frowning.  And,  as  Desire  woke  to  love  under 
his  eyes,  how  ceaselessly  it  worked  to  add  belief  to  hope. 
How  plausibly  it  reasoned,  how  cleverly  it  justified! 
That  Spence  loved  his  wife,  the  Thought  would  not  ac- 
cept as  possible.  All  John's  actual  knowledge  of  the 
depth  and  steadfastness  of  his  friend's  nature  was  pooh- 
poohed  or  ignored.  Benis,  dear  old  chap,  cared  nothing 
for  women.  Hadn't  he  always  shunned  them  in  his 
quiet  way?  And  hadn't  he,  John,  warned  Benis,  any- 
way? The  Thought  insisted  upon  the  warning  with  vir- 
tuous emphasis.  It  pointed  out  that  Benis  had  laughed 
at  the  warning.  Even  if — but  we  need  not  follow  John's 
excursions  further.  They  all  led  through  devious  ways 
to  the  old,  old  justification  of  everything  in  love  and 
war. 

As  time  went  on,  the  thing  which  fed  the  mistaken 
thoughts  of  both  Benis  and  John  was  the  change  in  De- 
sire herself.  That  she  was  increasingly  unhappy  was 
evident  to  both.  And  why  should  she  be  unhappy — 
imless? 

To  John  Rogers,  that  summer  remained  the  most  dis- 
tracting summer  of  his  life.  Desire  should  have  seen 
this — would  have  seen  it  had  her  mind-roads  not  been 
closed  by  their  own  obsession.  The  probability  is  that 
she  did  not  consciously  think  of  John  at  all.  He  was 
there  and  he  was  kind.  She  saw  nothing  farther  than 
that. 


256  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 


The  relationship  between  the  two  men  remained  ap- 
parently the  same  and  indeed  it  is  likely  that,  in  the  main, 
their  conception  one  of  the  other  did  not  change.  To 
Benis,  John's  virtues  were  still  as  real  and  admirable  as 
ever.  To  John,  Benis  was  still  a  bit  of  a  mystery  and  a 
bit  of  a  hero.  (There  were  war  stories  which  John 
knew  but  had  never  dared  to  tell,  lest  vengeance  befall 
him.)  But,  these  basic  things  aside,  there  were  new 
points  of  view.  Seen  as  a  possible  mate  for  Desire, 
Benis  found  John  most  lamentably  lacking.  Seen  in  the 
same  light,  Benis  to  John  was  undesirable  in  the  extreme. 
"If  it  could  only  be  someone  more  subtle  than  John," 
thought  Benis.  And,  *Tf  only  old  Benis  were  a  bit 
more  stable,"  thought  John.  Both  were  insincere,  since 
no  possible  combination  of  qualities  would  have  satisfied 
either. 

Of  this  fatally  misled  quartette,  Mary  Davis  w^as  per- 
haps the  one  most  open  to  reason.  And  yet  not  alto- 
gether so,  for  the  thought  of  Benis  Spence  as  eternally 
escaped  was  not  a  welcome  one.  She  realized  now  that 
she  might  have  liked  the  elusive  professor  more  than  a 
Httle.  They  would  have  been,  she  thought,  admirably 
suited.  At  the  w^orst,  neither  would  have  bored  the 
other.  And  the  Spence  home  was  quite  possible — as  a 
home  for  part  of  the  year  at  least.  It  was  certainly  an- 
noying that  fate  should  have  cut  in  so  unexpectedly.  And 
for  what?  Apparently  for  nothing  but  that  a  girl  with 
grey,  enigmatic  eyes  and  close-shut  lips  should  keep  from 
Mar}^  a  position  which  she  did  not  want  herself.  For 
Mary,  captive  of  her  Thought,  was  more  than  ready  to 
believe  that  Desire's  hidden  preference  was  for  John. 
She  naturally  could  not  grant  her  rival  a  share  of  her 
own  discriminating  taste  in  loving. 

"I   suppose,"   thought   Mary,    ''it   is   her   immaturity 
which  makes  her  prefer  the  doctor  person  to  one  who  so 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  257 

far  outranks  him.  She  admires  sleek  hair  and  a  straight 
nose.     The  finer  fascinations  of  Benis  escape  her.'* 

Meanwhile  she  stayed  on. 

*T  know  I  should  come  home,"  she  wrote  the  most  se- 
lect of  the  select  friends.  ''And  I  know  dear  Miss  Cam- 
pion thinks  so !  But  the  situation  here  is  too  absorbing. 
And,  as  my  invitation  was  indefinite,  I  can  hardly  be  ac- 
cused of  outstaying  it.  I  can't  be  supposed  to  know 
that  I'm  not  wanted.  I  justify  myself  by  the  knowledge 
that  I  am  of  some  use  to  Benis.  You  know  I  can  in- 
terest most  men  when  I  try,  and  this  time  my  'heart  is 
in  it' — like  Sentimental  Tommy.  I  am  even  teaching  a 
perfectly  dear  parrot  they  have  here  to  sing,  'Oh,  What 
a  Pal  was  Mary.'  Will  you  run  over  to  my  rooms  and 
send  down  that  London  smoke  chififon  frock  with  the 
silver  underslip?  Stockings  and  slippers  to  match  in  a 
box  in  the  bottom  drawer.  I  am  contemplating  a  moon- 
light mood  and  must  have  the  accessories.  One  loses 
half  the  effect  if  one  does  not  dress  the  part.  Madam 
Enigma  never  dresses  in  character.  Because  she  never 
assumes  one.  So  dull  to  be  always  just  oneself,  don't 
you  think?  Even  if  one  knew  what  one's  real  self  is, 
which  I  am  sure  I  do  not. 

"This  girl  annoys  me.  How  she  can  be  so  simple 
and  yet  so  complex  I  can't  understand.  I  thought  per- 
haps a  dash  of  jealousy  might  be  revealing.  But  she 
hasn't  turned  a  hair.  I  have  my  emotions  pretty  well  in 
hand  myself  but  even  if  I  didn't  adore  my  husband,  I'd 
see  that  no  one  else  appropriated  him.  But  as  far  as 
Madam  Coolness  is  concerned  it  looks  as  if  I  might  put 
her  husband  in  my  pocket  and  keep  him  there  indefinitely. 

"I  told  you  in  my  last  about  the  good-looking  doctor. 
What  she  sees  in  him  puzzles  me.  He  is  handsome  but 
as  dull  as  all  the  proverbs.  Can't  be  original  even  in 
his  love  affairs — otherwise  he  would  hardly  select  his 


258  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 


best  friend's  bride — so  bookish!  Why  doesn't  someone 
fall  in  love  with  tlie  wife  of  his  enemy?  It  seems  to  have 
gone  out  since  Romeo's  time.  (Now  don't  write  and 
tell  me  that  Juliet  wasn't  married.) 

"Another  thing  which  I  find  odd,  is  the  attitude  of 
Benis  himself.  He  is  quite  alive,  painfully  so,  to  the  drift 
of  the  thing.  Yet  he  does  nothing.  And  this  is  not  in 
keeping  with  his  character.  He  is  the  type  of  man  who, 
in  spite  of  an  unassertive  manner,  holds  what  he  has  with 
no  uncertain  grasp.  Why,  then,  does  he  let  this  one 
thing  go?  The  logical  deduction  is  that  he  knows  that 
he  never  had  it.  All  of  which,  being  interpreted,  means 
that  things  may  happen  here  through  the  sheer  inertia 
of  other  things.  Almost  every  day  I  think,  'Something 
ought  to  be  done.'  But  I  know  I  shall  never  do  it.  I 
am  not  the  novelist's  villainess  who  arranges  a  com- 
promising situation  and  produces  the  surprised  husband 
from  behind  a  door.  Neither  am  I  a  peacemaker  or  an 
altruist.  I  am  not  selfish  enough  in  one  way  nor  un- 
selfish enough  in  another.  (Probably  that  is  why  life 
has  lost  interest  in  my  special  case.)  Even  my  emotions 
are  hopelessly  mixed.  There  are  times  when  I  find 
myself  viciously  hoping  that  Madam  Composure  will  go 
the  limit  and  that  right  quickly.  And  there  are  other 
times  when  I  feel  I  should  like  to  choke  her  into  a  proper 
realization  of  what  she  is  risking.  Not  for  her  sake — 
I'm  far  too  feminine  for  that — but  because  I  hate  to 
see  her  play  with  this  man  (whom  I  like  myself)  and 
get  away  with  it." 

It  is  worth  while  remembering  the  closing  sentences  of 
this  letter.  They  explain,  or  partially  explain,  a  certain 
future  action  on  the  part  of  the  writer,  which  might 
otherwise  seem  out  of  keeping  with  her  well  defined  at- 
titude of  "Mary  first." 


XXXIII 

'npHERE  is  one  thing  which  I  simply  do  not  iinder- 
-■-  stand."  Miss  Davis  dug  the  point  of  a  destructive 
parasol  into  the  well-kept  gravel  of  the  drive  and  allowed 
a  glance  of  deep  seriousness  to  drift  from  under  the 
shadow  of  her  hat.  Unfortunately,  her  companion  was 
not  attending. 

It  was  the  day  of  Mrs,  Burton  Jones'  garden  party, 
the  Bainbridge  event  for  which  Miss  Davis  was,  pre- 
sumably, staying  over.  Mary,  in  a  new  frock  of  sheerest 
grey  and  most  diaphanous  white,  and  a  hat  which  lay 
like  a  breath  of  mist  against  the  gold  of  her  hair,  had 
come  down  early.  In  the  course  of  an  observant  career, 
she  had  learned  that,  in  one  respect  at  least,  men  are 
like  worms.  They  are  inclined  to  be  early.  Mary  had 
often  profited  by  this  bit  of  wisdom,  and  was  glad  that 
so  few  other  women  seemed  to  realize  its  importance. 
One  can  do  much  with  ten  or  fifteen  uninterrupted  min- 
utes. 

But  today  Mary  had  not  done  much.  She  had  found 
Benis,  as  she  expected,  on  the  front  steps.  They  had 
talked  for  quite  ten  minutes  without  an  interruption — 
but  also  without  any  reason  to  deplore  one. 

This  was  failure.  And  Mary,  whose  love  of  the  chase 
grew  as  the  quarry  proved  shy,  was  beginning  to  be  seri- 
ously annoyed  with  Benis.  He  might  at  least  play  up! 
Even  now  he  was  not  looking  at  her,  and  he  did  not  ask 
her  what  it  was  that  she  simply  did  not  understand. 
Mary  decided  that  he  deserved  something — a  pin-prick 
at  least. 

''Why  don't  you  get  a  car,  Benis?"  she  asked  inconse- 

259 


26o  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

quently.  *'If  you  had  one,  Desire  might  ride  in  it  some- 
times, instead  of  always  in  Dr.  Rogers'.  Can't  you  see 
that  it's  dangerous?" 

''One  has  to  take  risks,'^  said  Spence  plaintively. 
*'John  is  careless.     But  he  has  never  killed  anyone  yet." 

"You're  impossible,  Benis." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  particularly  impossible  as  a  chauf- 
feur. That's  why  I  haven't  a  car.  What  would  I  do 
with  a  driver  when  I  wasn't  using  him?  Desire  w^ill 
have  a  car  of  her  own  as  soon  as  she  likes  to  try  it.  Aunt 
won't  drive  and  I — don't." 

This  was  the  first  approach  to  a  personal  remark  the 
professor  had  made.  No  one  was  in  sight  yet  and  Mary 
began  to  hope  again.  Once  more  she  tried  the  gently 
serious  gaze. 

''W^hy  not?"  she  asked,  not  too  eagerly. 

Yorick,  sunning  himself  by  the  door,  gave  vent  to  a 
goblin  chuckle.  ''Oh,  what  a  pal  was  M-MaryM  Oh, 
what  a  pal — Nothing  doing!"  he  finished  with  a  shriek 
and  began  to  flap  his  wings. 

The  professor  laughed.  "Yorick  gets  his  lessons 
mixed,"  he  said.  "But  isn't  he  a  wonder?  Did  you 
ever  know  a  bird  who  could  learn  so  quickly?" 

Mary  did  not  w^ant  to  talk  about  birds. 

"Do  tell  me  why  you  dislike  driving?"  she  asked  with 
gentle  insistence. 

"Oh,  I  like  it.  It's  not  that.  I  used  to  drive  like 
Jehu,  or  John.  Never  had  an  accident.  But  when  I 
came  back  from  overseas  I  found  I  couldn't  trust  my 
nerve — no  quick  judgment,  no  instinctive  reaction — all 
gone  to  pieces.     Rather  rotten." 

With  unerring  intuition  Mary  knew  this  for  a  real 
confidence.  Fortunately  she  was  an  expert  with  shy 
game. 

"Quite  rotten,"  she  said  soberly.     He  went  on. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  261 

"It's  little  things  like  that  that  hit  hard.  Not  to  be 
one's  own  man  in  a  crisis — d'y'  see  ?" 

Mary  nodded. 

"But  it's  only  temporary,"  he  continued  more  cheer- 
fully. "I'll  try  myself  out  one  of  these  days.  Only, 
of  course,  arranged  tests  are  never  real  ones.  The  crisis 
must  leap  on  one  to  be  of  any  use.  Some  little  time  ago, 
when  I  was  at  the  coast,  an  incident  happened — a  kind 
of  unexpected  emergency" — he  paused  thoughtfully  as  a 
sudden  vision  of  a  moon-lit  room  flashed  before  him — 
"I  got  through  that  all  right,"  he  added,  "so  I'm  hope- 
ful." 

"How  thrilling,"  said  Mary.  "Won't  you  tell  me  what 
it  was?" 

His  eyes  met  hers  with  a  placidity  for  which  she  could 
have  shaken  him. 

"It  wouldn't  interest  you,"  he  said.  "I  hear  Aunt 
coming  at  last." 

Miss  Campion's  voice  had  indeed  preceded  her. 

"Oh,  there  you  are,  Mary,"  she  said  with  some  acidity. 
"I  told  Desire  you  were  sure  to  be  down  first." 

"I  try  to  be  prompt,"  said  Mary  meekly.  "I  have  been 
keeping  Benis  company  until  you  were  ready."  She 
spoke  to  Miss  Campion  but  her  slightly  mocking  eyes 
watched  for  some  change  upon  the  face  of  her  young 
hostess.     Desire,  as  usual,  was  serene. 

"Mary  thinks  we  are  all  heathens  not  to  have  a  car," 
said  Benis.  "When  are  you  going  to  choose  yours.  De- 
sire?" 

"Not  at  all,  I  think,"  said  Desire. 

Men,  even  clever  men,  are  like  that.  The  professor 
had  seen  no  possible  sting  in  his  idly  spoken  words.  But 
the  sore,  hot  spot,  which  now  seemed  ever  present  in 
Desire's  heart,  grew  sorer  and  hotter.     To  owe  a  car 


262  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

to  the  reminder  of  another  woman!  Naturally,  Desire 
could  do  very  well  without  it. 

"But  don't  you  miss  a  car  terribly?"  asked  Mary  with 
kind  concern. 

"I  cannot  miss  what  I  have  never  had." 

''Oh,  in  the  west,  I  suppose  one  does  have  horses  still." 

"There  may  be  a  few  left,  I  think."  Desire's  slow 
smile  crept  out  as  memory  brought  the  asthmatic  "chug" 
of  the  "Tillicum."  "My  father  and  I  used  a  launch  al- 
most exclusively."  In  spite  of  herself  she  could  not  resist 
a  glance  at  the  professor.  His  eyes  met  hers  with  a  ghost 
of  their  old  twinkle. 

"A  launch?"  Mary's  surprise  was  patent.  "Did  you 
run  it  yourself?" 

"We  had  a  Chinese  engineer,"  said  Desire  demurely. 
"But  I  could  manage  it  if  necessary." 

Further  conversation  upon  modes  of  locomotion  on 
the  coast  was  cut  off  by  the  precipitate  arrival  of  John 
who,  coming  up  the  drive  in  his  best  manner,  narrowly 
escaped  a  triple  fatality  at  the  steps. 

"You  people  are  careless!"  he  exclaimed  indignantly. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  standing  on  the  drive?  Some- 
one might  have  been  hurt!  Anyone  here  like  to  get 
driven  to  the  garden  party?" 

"Do  doctors  find  time  for  garden  parties  in  Bain- 
bridge?"  asked  Mary  in  mock  surprise. 

"Healthiest  place  you  ever  saw!"  declared  Dr.  John 
gloomily.  "And  anyway,  this  garden  party  is  a  pre- 
scription of  mine.  Naturally  I  am  expected  to  take  my 
own  medicine.  I  said  to  Mrs.  B.  Jones,  'What  you  need, 
dear  Mrs.  Jones,  is  a  little  gentle  excitement  combined 
with  fresh  air,  complete  absence  of  mental  strain  and 
plenty  of  cooling  nourishment.'  Did  you  ever  hear  a 
garden  party  more  delicately  suggested?  Desire,  will 
you  sit  in  front?" 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  263 

"Husbands  first,"  said  Benis.  ''In  the  case  of  a 
head-on  colhsion,  I  claim  the  post  of  honorable  dan- 
ger." 

It  was  surely  a  natural  and  a  harmless  speech.  But 
instantly  the  various  mistaken  thoughts  of  his  hearers 
turned  it  to  their  will.  Desire's  eyes  grew  still  more 
clouded  under  their  lowered  lids.  "He  does  not  dare 
to  sit  beside  Mary,"  whispered  her  particular  mental 
highwayman.  "Oho,  he  is  beginning  to  show  human 
jealousy  at  last,"  thought  Mary.  "He  has  noticed  that 
she  likes  to  sit  beside  me,"  exulted  John.  Of  them  all, 
only  Aunt  Caroline  was  anywhere  near  the  truth.  "He 
has  taken  my  warning  to  heart,"  thought  she.  "But 
then,  I  always  knew  I  could  manage  men  if  I  had  a 
chance." 

A  garden  party  in  Balnbridge  Is  not  exciting,  in  itself. 
In  themselves,  no  garden  parties  are  exciting.  As  mere 
garden  parties  they  partake  somewhat  of  the  slow  and 
awful  calm  of  undisturbed  nature.  One  could  see  the 
grass  grow  at  a  garden  party,  if  so  many  people  were 
not  trampling  on  it.  So  it  is  possible  that  there  were 
those  in  Mrs.  Burton  Jones'  grounds  that  afternoon  who, 
bringing  no  personal  drama  with  them,  had  rather  a  dull 
time.  For  others  it  was  a  fateful  day.  There  were 
psychic  milestones  on  Mrs.  Burton  Jones'  smooth  lawn 
that  afternoon. 

It  was  there,  for  instance,  that  the  youngest  Miss 
Keith  (the  pretty  one)  decided  to  marry  Jerry  Clarkson, 
junior  (and  regretted  it  all  her  life).  It  was  there  that 
Mrs.  Keene  first  suspected  the  new  principal  of  the  Col- 
legiate Institute  of  Bolshevik  tendencies.  (He  had  said 
that,  in  his  opinion,  kings  were  bound  to  go.)  And  it 
was  there  that  Miss  Ellis  spoke  to  Miss  Sutherland  for 
the  first  time  in  three  years.     (She  asked  her  if  she 


264  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

would  have  lemon  or  chocolate  cake — a  clear  matter  of 
social  duty.)  It  was  there  also  that  Miss  Mary  Sophia 
Watkins,  Dr.  Rogers'  capable  nurse,  decided  finally  that 
a  longer  stay  in  Bainbridge  would  be  wasted  time.  It 
was  the  first  time  she  had  actually  seen  her  admired  doc- 
tor and  the  object  of  his  supposed  regard  together,  and 
a  certain  look  which  she  surprised  on  Dr.  John's  face  as 
his  eyes  followed  Desire  across  the  lawn,  convinced  her 
so  thoroughly  that,  like  a  sensible  girl,  she  packed  up  that 
night  and  went  back  to  the  city. 

Perhaps  it  was  that  very  look  which  also  decided 
Spence.  For  decide  he  did.  There  was  no  excuse  for 
waiting  longer.  He  must  "have  it  out"  with  John.  De- 
sire must  be  given  her  freedom.  Of  John's  attitude  he 
had  small  doubt.  His  infatuation  for  Desire  had  been 
plain  from  the  beginning.  Time  had  served  only  to 
centre  and  strengthen  it.  He  could  not  in  justice  blame 
John.  He  didn't  blame  John.  That  is  to  say,  he  would 
not  ofificially  permit  himself  to  blame  John,  though  he 
knew  very  well  that  he  did  blame  him.  A  sense  of  the 
rights  of  other  people  as  opposed  to  one's  own  rights 
has  been  hardly  gained  by  the  Race,  and  is  by  no  means 
firmly  seated  yet.  Let  primitive  passions  slip  control  for 
an  instant  and  presto!  good-bye  to  the  rights  of  other 
people!  The  primitive  man  in  Spence  would  not  have 
argued  the  matter.  Having  obtained  his  mate  by  any 
means  at  all,  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  anyone  who, 
however  justly,  attempted  to  take  her  from  him.  Today, 
at  Mrs.  Burton-Jones'  garden  party,  the  acquired  re^ 
straints  of  character  seemed  wearing  thin.  The  pro- 
fessor decided  that  it  might  be  advisable  to  go  home. 

Desire  and  Mary  noticed  his  absence  at  about  the  same 
time.  And  both  lost  interest  in  the  party  with  the  sud- 
denness of  a  light  blown  out. 

"Things  are  moving,"  thought  Mary  with  a  thrill  of 


THE     WINDOW-GAZEPx  265 

triumph.  But  in  spite  of  her  triumph  she  was  angry.  It 
is  not  pleasant  to  have  the  power  of  one's  rival  so  starkly 
revealed.  Malice  crept  into  her  faun-like  eyes  as  she 
looked  across  to  w^here  Desire  sat,  a  composed  young 
figure,  listening  with  apparent  interest  to  the  biggest 
bore  in  Bainbridge.  What  right  had  she  to  hold  a  man's 
hot  heart  between  her  placid  hands!  Mary  ground  her 
parasol  into  Mrs.  Burton-Jones'  best  sod  and  her  small 
white  teeth  shut  grindingly  behind  her  lips. 

Desire  was  trying  to  listen  to  the  little  man  with  the 
enlarged  ego  who  attempted  to  entertain  her.  But  she 
was  very  much  aware  of  Mary  and  all  her  moods.  ''She 
is  selfish.  She  will  make  him  miserable,"  thought  De- 
sire. "But  she  will  make  him  happy  first.  And,  in  any 
case,  he  must  be  free." 

''Yes,  Mrs.  Spence,"  the  little  man  beside  her  was 
saying,  "a  man  like  myself,  however  diffident,  must  be 
ready  to  do'  his  full  duty  by  the  community  in  w^hich 
he  lives.  That  is  why  I  feel  I  must  accept  the  nomina- 
tion for  mayor  of  this  town — if  I  am  offered  it.  My 
friends  say  to  me,  'Miller,  you  are  a  man,  and  we  need 
a  man.  Bainbridge  needs  a  man.'  What  am  I  to  do 
under  such  circumstances?     If  there  is  no  man " 

"You  might  try  a  woman,"  said  Desire,  suddenly  los- 
ing patience.  The  garden  party  was  stupid.  The  ego- 
tist was  stupid.  She  was  probably  stupid  too,  because 
she  knew^  that  a  few  weeks  ago  she  would  have  found 
both  the  party  and  the  egotist  entertaining.  She  would 
have  been  delighted  to  peep  in  at  a  window  where  every- 
thing was  labelled  "Big  I."  She  would  have  enjoyed 
]\Irs.  Burton- Jones'  windows  immensely — but  now,  win- 
dow's bored  her.  In  the  only  window  that  mattered  the 
blinds  were  down.  Desire's  life  had  narrowed  as  it 
broadened.  It  wasn't  life  that  she  wanted  any  more — 
it  was  the  one  thing  which  could  have  made  Hfe  dear. 


266  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

A  great  impatience  of  trivialities  came  upon  her.  She 
hardly  heard  the  injured  tones  of  the  little  man  who  had 
embarked  upon  a  heated  repudiation  of  a  feminine  may- 
oralty. It  did  not  amuse  her  even  when  he  proved  log- 
ically that  women  could'  never  be  anything  because  they 
were  always  something  else.  Instead  she  looked  to  Dr. 
John  for  rescue,  and  Dr.  John,  most  observant  of  knights, 
immediately  rescued  her. 

''Did  you  see  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Keene  (the  same  who 
discovered  the  Bolshevik  principal).  She  touched  Miss 
Davis  significantly  on  the  arm. 

Mary,  who  had  seen  perfectly  well,  looked  blank. 

''Of  course  you  are  not  one  of  us,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Keene.  "So  you  can  scarcely  be  expected.  .  .  .  Still, 
living  in  the  same  house  .  .  .  and  knowing  the  dear  pro- 
fessor so  well." 

"Did  you  wish  to  speak  to  him?  He  has  gone  home, 
I  think,"  said  Mary,  innocently.  "I  fancy  he  doesn't 
suffer  garden  parties  gladly." 

"No — such  a  pity!  With  a  wife  so  young  and,  if  I 
may  say  so,  so  different.  One  feels  that  she  has  not  been 
brought  up  amongst  us.  So  sad.  I  always  say  'Let  our 
young  men  marry  at  home.'  So  sensible.  One  knows 
where  one  is  then,  don't  you  think  ?" 

Mary  agreed  that,  in  such  a  position,  one  might  know 
where  one  was. 

"And  book  writing,"  said  Mrs.  Keene,  "so  fatiguing! 
So  liable  to  occupy  one's  attention — to  the  exclusion  of 
other  matters.  .  .  .  The  dear  professor.  ...  So  bound 
up  in  the  marvels  of  the  human  brain!" 

"Not  brain,  mind,"  corrected  Mary  gently.  "The 
professor  is  a  psychologist." 

"Well,  of  course  if  you  wish  to  separate  them,  in  a 
scriptural  sense.     But  what  I  mean  is  that  such  biological 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  267 

studies  are  dangerous.  So  absorbing.  When  one  exam- 
ines things  through  a  microscope '* 

**One  doesn't — in  psychology." 

"Well,  perhaps  not  so  much  as  formerly,  especially 
since  vivisection  is  so  looked  down  upon.  But  it  is  ter- 
ribly absorbing,  as  I  say.  And  one  can  hardly  expect 
an  absorbed  man  to  see  things.     And  yet " 

"What  is  it,"  asked  Mary  bluntly,  "that  you  think 
Professor  Spence  ought  to  see?" 

This  was  entirely  too  blunt  for  Mrs.  Keene.  She,  in 
her  turn,  looked  blank.  What  did  Miss  Davis  mean? 
She  was  not  aware  that  she  had  suggested  the  professor's 
seeing  anything.  Probably  there  was  nothing  at  all  to 
see.  Young  people  have  such  latitude  nowadays.  She 
herself  was  not  a  gossip.  She  despised  gossip.  "What 
I  always  say,"  declared  she,  virtuously,  "is  'do  not  hint 
things.'  Say  them  right  out  and  then  we  shall  know 
where  we  are.     Don't  you  think  so?" 

Mary  agreed  that,  under  these  conditions  also,  one 
might  be  fairly  sure  of  one's  position  in  space.  "Un- 
less," she  concluded  maliciously,  "there  is  anything  in 
the  Einstein  theory." 

This  latter  shot  had  the  effect  intended,  for  Mrs.  Keene 

said  hurriedly,   "Oh,   of  course  in  that  case "   and 

moved  away. 

"Pm  going  home,  Mary,"  said  Aunt  Caroline,  coming 
up.  Aunt  Caroline  had  had  enough  garden  party.  She 
had  noticed  both  the  rescue  of  Desire  by  John,  and  the 
conversation  of  Mary  with  Mrs.  Keene — the  "worst  old 
gossip  in  Bainbridge." 

Desire  was  quite  ready  to  go.  So  was  Mary.  The 
centre  of  attraction  for  them  both  had  shifted  itself. 
John  too,  felt  that  he  ought  to  turn  up  at  the  office. 
But  all  three  ladies  politely  declined  a  lift  home  in  his 
car. 


268  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 


''It  is  so  hot,"  he  pleaded. 

"It  is  not  hot,"  said  Aunt  Carohne. 

Mary  smiled  mockingly  and  murmured  something 
about  the  great  distances  of  small  towns.  Desire  said, 
"No,  thank  you,  John,"  in  her  detached  way — a  way 
which  drove  him  mad  even  while  he  adored  it. 

So  the  Burton-Jones  garden  party  faded  into  history. 
But  history-in-the-making  caught  up  its  effects  and  car- 
ried them  on.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  lovely  night.  But  indoors  it  was  hot  with 
the  accumulated  heat  of  the  day.  Instead  of  going  to 
bed,  Mary  slipped  out  into  the  garden.  It  was  fresher 
there,  and  she  was  restless.  The  front  of  the  house  lay 
in  darkness,  but,  from  the  library  window  at  the  side, 
stretched  a  ribbon  of  light.  Benis  must  be  still  at  work. 
With  slippers  which  made  no  sound  upon  the  grass, 
Mary  crossed  over  to  the  window  and  looked  in. 

What  she  saw  there  stung  her  already  fretted  soul  to 
unreasoning  anger,  and  for  once  the  circumspect  IMiss 
Davis  acted  upon  impulse  undeterred  by  thought.  En- 
tering the  house  softly,  she  ran  upstairs  to  the  west  room 
which  she  entered  without  knocking. 

Desire,  seated  at  the  dressing  table,  turned  in  surprise. 
She  was  ready  for  bed,  but  lingered  over  the  brushing 
of  her  hair.  With  another  spasm  of  anger,  Mary  no- 
ticed the  hair  she  brushed — hair  long  and  lustrous  and 
lifted  in  soft  waves.  A  pink  kimona  lay  across  the  back 
of  her  chair,  a  pretty  thing — but  not  at  all  French. 

'Tut  it  on,"  said  Mary,  ''and  come  here.  I  want  to 
show  you  something." 

Desire  did  not  ask  "What?"  Nor  did  she  keep  Mary 
waiting.  Pleasant  or  unpleasant,  it  was  not  Desire's  way 
to  delay  revelation.     Together  the  two  girls  hurried  out 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  269 

into  the  dew-sweet  garden.  As  they  went,  Mary  spoke 
in  gusty  sentences. 

"I  don't  care  what  you  do."  (She  was  almost  sob- 
bing in  her  anger.)  ''I  don't  understand  you.  ...  I 
don't  want  to.  .  .  .  But  you're  not  going  to  get  away 
with  it  .  .  .  that  cool  air  of  yours  .  .  .  pretending  not 
to  see.  ...  If  you  are  human  at  all  you'll  see  .  .  .  and 
remember  all  your  life.'^ 

They  were  close  to  the  library  window  now.  Desire 
looked  in. 

She  looked  so  long  and  stood  so  still  that  Mary  had 
time  to  get  back  a  little  of  her  breath  and  something  of 
her  common  sense.  An  instinct  which  her  selfish  life  had 
pretty  well  buried  began  to  stir. 

''Come  away,"  she  whispered,  *'I  shouldn't  have  .  .  . 
it  wasn't  fair  ...  he  would  never  forgive  us  if  he 
knew  we  had  seen  him  like  this !" 

Desire  drew  back  instantly. 

''No,"  she  said.  Her  voice  was  toneless.  Her  face 
in  the  darkness  gleamed  wedge-shaped  and  unfamiliar  be- 
tween the  falling  waves  of  her  hair. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Mary  sulkily.  "But  I  thought  you 
ought  to  know  what  you  are  doing.  It  takes  a  lot  to 
break  up  a  man  like  that.'* 

"Yes,"  said  Desire. 

"All  the  same  I  had  no  right " 

"You  will  have,"  said  Desire  evenly. 

They  w^ere  at  her  door  now.  She  paused  with  her 
hand  on  the  knob. 

"I  knew  he  cared,"  she  said  in  the  same  level  voice, 
"but  I  didn't  know  that  he  cared  like  that." 

"You  know  now,"  said  Mary.  Her  irritation  was  re- 
turning. 

"Yes,"  said  Desire.     "Good-night." 

She  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 


XXXIV 

T  T  seems  incredible  and  yet  it  is  a  fact  that  Bainbridge 
-^  never  knew  that  young  Mrs.  Spence  had  run  away. 
Full  credit  for  this  must  be  given  to  Miss  Caroline  Cam- 
pion, who  never  really  believed  it  herself — a  mental  limi- 
tation which  lent  the  necessary  air  of  unemphasized  truth 
to  her  statement  that  Desire  had  been  summoned  sud- 
denly to  her  father. 

Miss  Campion  had,  in  her  own  mind,  built  up  an  imag- 
inary Dr.  Farr  in  every  way  suited  to  be  the  father-in- 
law  of  a  Spence.  This  creation  she  passed  on  to  Bain- 
bridge as  Desire's  father.  "Such  a  fine  old  gentleman," 
she  would  say.  "And  so  devoted  to  his  only  daughter. 
Quite  a  recluse,  though,  my  nephew  tells  me.  And  not 
at  all  strong."  This  idea  of  delicacy,  which  Miss  Cam- 
pion had  added  to  the  picture  from  a  sense  of  the  fitness 
of  things,  proved  useful  now.  An  only  daughter  may 
be  summoned  to  attend  a  delicate  father  at  a  moment's 
notice,  without  unduly  straining  credulity. 

One  feels  almost  sorry  for  Bainbridge.  It  would  have 
enjoyed  the  truth  so  much ! 

"Is  Desire  going  to  have  no  breakfast  at  all?"  asked 
Aunt  Caroline,  from  behind  the  coffee-urn  on  the  morn- 
ing following  the  garden-party.  It  was  an  invariable 
custom  of  hers  to  pretend  that  her  nephew  was  fully 
conversant  with  his  wife's  intentions. 

"She  may  be  tired,"  said  Benis. 

"No.  She  has  been  up  some  time.  The  door  of  her 
room  was  open  when  I  came  down." 

270 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  271 

"Then  she  is  probably  in  the  garden.  I'll  ask  Olive 
to  call  her/' 

*'Why  not  call  her  yourself?     I  have  a  feeling " 

The  professor  rose  from  his  untasted  coffee.  When 
Aunt  Caroline  **had  a  feeling"  it  was  useless  to  argue. 

''Are  you 'sleeping  badly  again,  Benis?"  asked  Aunt 
Caroline.     ''Your  eyes  look  like  burnt  holes  in  a  blanket." 

"Nothing  to  bother  about,  Aunt."  He  stepped  out 
quickly  into  the  sunny  garden.  But  Desire  v^as  not 
among  the  flowers,  neither  was  she  on  the  lawn  nor  in 
the  shrubbery.  A  few  moments'  search  proved  that  she 
was  not  out  of  doors  at  all.  Benis  returned  to  his  coffee. 
He  found  it  quite  cold  and  no  waiting  Aunt  Caroline  to 
pour  him  another  cup.  "I  wonder,"  he  pondered  idly, 
"why,  when  one  really  wants  coffee,  it  is  always  cold." 

Then  he  forgot  about  coffee  suddenly  and  completely, 
for  Aunt  Caroline  came  in  with  the  news  that  Desire  was 
gone. 

"Gone  where  ?"  asked  Spence  stupidly. 

"That,"  said  Aunt  Caroline,  "she  leaves  you  to  inform 
me." 

With  the  feeling  of  being  someone  else  and  acting 
under  compulsion  he  took  the  few  written  lines  which 
she  held  out  to  him.  ''Dear  Aunt  Caroline,"  he  read, 
''Benis  will  tell  you  why  I  am  going.  But  I  cannot  go 
without  thanking  you.  Fll  never  forget  how  good  you 
have  been — Desire.'^ 

"I  had  a  feeling,"  said  Aunt  CaroHne  with  mournful 
triumph.  "It  never  deceives  me,  never!  As  I  passed 
our  dear  girl's  room  this  morning,  I  said,  'She  is  not 
there' — and  she  wasn't!" 

"I  think  you  mentioned  that  the  door  was  open." 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.     I " 

"Where  did  you  find  this  note?" 


272  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

"On  her  dressing  table.  When  you  went  into  the  gar- 
den, I  went  upstairs.     I  had  a  feeHng " 

"W^as  there  nothing  else?     No  note  for  me?" 

"No,"  in  surprise.  "She  says  you  know  all  about 
it.     Don't  you?" 

"Something,  not  all." 

Aunt  Caroline  was,  upon  occasion,  quite  capable  of 
meeting  a  crisis.  Remembering  the  neglected  coffee,  she 
poured  a  cup  for  each  of  them. 

"Here,"  said  she,  "drink  this.  You  look  as  if  you 
needed  it.  I  must  say,  Benis,  that  you  don't  act  as  if 
you  knew  anything,  but  if  you  do,  you'd  better  tell  me. 
Where  is  Desire?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Umph!  Then  what  you  do  know  won't  help  us  to 
find  her.  Finding  her  is  the  first  thing.  I  wonder," 
thoughtfully,  "if  she  told  John?" 

A  wintry  smile  passed  over  the  professor's  lips. 

"I  shall  ask  him,"  he  said. 

Aunt  Caroline  proceeded  with  her  own  deducing. 
"There  is  no  one  else  she  could  have  told,"  she  reasoned. 
"She  did  not  tell  you.  She  did  not  tell  me.  Naturally, 
she  would  not  tell  Mary.  And  a  girl  nearly  always  tells 
somebody.  So  it  must  be  John.  I  hope  you  are  suffi- 
ciently ashamed  of  yourself,  Benis?  I  told  you  Desire 
w^ouldn't  understand  your  attentions  to  Mary.  Though 
I  admit  I  did  not  dream  she  would  take  them  quite  so 
seriously.     I  don't  envy  you  your  explanations." 

"Aunt " 

"W^ait  a  moment,  Benis.  On  second  thought,  if  I 
were  you  I  would  not  explain  at  all.  Simply  tell  her  she 
is  mistaken  and  stick  to  that.  She  may  believe  you. 
Promise  her  that  you  will  never  see  Mary  again — and 
you  won't"  (grimly)  "if  I  have  anything  to  say  about 
it.     Desire  will  come  around.     I  have  a  feeling " 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  273 

"My  dear  Aunt!" 

''Let  me  proceed,  Benis.  I  have  a  feeling  that  she  will 
forgive  you — once.  But  let  this  be  a  lesson.  Desire 
is  not  a  girl  who  will  forgive  twice." 

''You  are  all  wrong,  Aunt,"  with  weary  patience. 
"But  it  doesn't  matter.  Say  nothing  about  this.  I  am 
going  to  see  John." 

"Not  before  you  drink  that  coffee.'* 

Benis  obediently  drank.  Hurry  would  not  mend  what 
had  happened. 

"She  has  taken  her  travelling  coat  and  hat,"  pursued 
Aunt  Caroline.  "Her  train  slippers,  that  taupe  jersey- 
cloth  suit,  some  fresh  blouses,  her  dressing  case,  her 
night  things  and  your  photo  off  the  dressing  table." 

Benis  smiled,  a  wry  smile,  and  pushed  back  his  cup. 

"You  don't  look  fit  to  go  anywhere,"  said  Aunt  Caro- 
line irritably.     "Why  can't  you  call  John  on  the  'phone?" 

"That  would  be  quite  modern,"  said  Benis.  "But — 
I  think  ril  see  him.     I  shan't  be  long." 

It  never  once  occurred  to  the  professor,  you  will  notice, 
that  he  might  find  John  vanished  also.  His  obsessing 
thought  had  not  been  able  to  change  his  essential  knowl- 
edge of  either  Desire  or  John.  If  Desire  had  gone,  she 
had  gone  because  she  could  not  stay.  But  she  had  gone 
alone.  Just  what  determining  thing  had  happened  to 
make  her  flight  imperative,  Benis  could  not  guess.  But 
lie  would  not  have  been  human  if  he  had  not  blamed  the 
other  man.  "The  fool  has  bungled  it!"  he  thought. 
"Lost  control  of  his  precious  feelings,  perhaps — broken 
through — said  something — frightened  her."  We  may  be 
sure  that  he  cursed  John  in  his  heart  very  completely. 

But  when  he  entered  John's  office  and  saw  John  he 
began  to  doubt  even  this.  There  was  no  guilt  on  the 
doctor's  face — no  sign  of  apprehension  or  regret,  no 
tremor  of  knowledge.    An  angry-eyed  young  man  looked 


274 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER 


up  from  a  letter  he  was  reading  with  nothing  more  seri- 
ous than  injured  wonder  in  his  gaze. 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  asked  John  disgustedly,  waving  the 
letter.  "Aren't  women  the  limit?  Here's  this  one  go- 
ing off  without  a  word,  or  an  excuse,  or  anything.  Just 
gone !  And  a  silly  note  thrown  on  my  desk.  I  tell  you 
women  have  absolutely  no  sense  of  business  obligation 
— ^positively  not !" 

Spence  restrained  himself. 

"You  are  speaking  of ?'* 

"That  nurse  of  mine,  Miss  Watkins.  Never  a  word 
about  leaving  yesterday,  and  today  vanished — vamoosed 
— simply  non  est !     Look  at  what  she  says " 

Spence  pushed  the  letter  aside. 

"There  is  something  more  important  than  that,  John," 
he  said  quietly,  "Desire  has  left  me." 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other.  Spence  was  the 
first  to  speak. 

"There  is  no  doubt  about  it.  She  is  gone.  She  has 
not  told  us  where.     I  see  that  you  do  not  know." 

John  shook  his  head. 

"There  may  be  a  note  for  you  in  the  morning's  mail." 
Benis  was  coldly  brief.  "I  must  know  where  she  is. 
If  you  can  help  me,  let  me  know."  He  turned  to  the 
door. 

With  difficulty  John  found  his  voice. 

"I  knew  nothing  of  this,  Benis." 

"I  realize  that,"  dryly.  "But  you  may  be  responsible 
for  it.     She  had  no  idea  of  leaving  yesterday." 

"Benis,  I  swear " 

"It  is  not  necessary.  Besides,"  bitterly,  "you  could 
afford  to  be  patient.     You  felt  fairly — sure,  didn't  you  ?" 

"Sure!     No,  I " 

"You  mean  you  merely  hoped  ?" 

"Oh— damn!" 


_^ THE    WINDOW-GAZER  275 

"Quite  so.  There  is  nothing  to  say.  Not  being  a 
sentimentalist,  I  shan't  pretend  to  love  you,  John.  But 
I  gambled  and  I've  lost.  1  have  always  admired  a  good 
loser.'* 


XXXV 

UPON  reaching  home  Benis  found   Aunt  CaroHne 
waiting  for  him  just  inside  the  outer  gate. 

''I  thought,"  she  explained,  "that  we  might  talk  while 
strolling  up  the  drive.     Then  Olive  would  not  overhear." 

The  professor  had  quite  neglected  to  consider  Olive. 

'T  have  told  OHve,"  w^ent  on  Aunt  Caroline,  ''that 
Mrs.  Spence  had  received  news  of  her  father  which  was 
far  from  satisfactory  and  that  she  had  left  for  Van- 
couver by  the  early  morning  train.  The  morning  train 
is  the  only  one  she  could  have  left  by,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  that's  all  right.  I  also  let  Olive  know,  indi- 
rectly, that  you  were  remaining  behind  to  attend  to  a  few 
matters.     After  which  you  would  follow." 

Admiration  for  this  generalship  pierced  even  the  deep 
depression  of  the  professor. 

"Does  John  know  where  she  is?"  pursued  Aunt  Caro- 
line. 

"No." 

"Then  she  has  gone  home  to  her  father.  She  said 
something  the  other  day  which  puzzled  me.  I  can't  re- 
member just  what  it  was  but  she  seemed  to  have  some 
fatalistic  idea,  about  her  old  life  having  a  hold  upon  her 
which  she  couldn't  shake  off.  Pure  morbidity,  as  I 
pointed  out.  But  she  has  gone  back.  I  have  a  feeling 
that  she  has." 

"You  may  be  right,  Aunt.  It  will  be  easy  to  find 
out.  If  I  can  make  the  necessary  inquiries  without 
arousing  gossip.  There  was  nothing  in  the  mail — for 
me?" 

276 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  277 


''No.  The  man  has  just  been.  But  there  is  something 
for  Desire,  an  odd  looking  package  done  up  in  foreign 
paper.     I  have  it  here." 

Spence  took  from  her  hand  a  sHm,  yellowish  packet, 
directed  in  the  crabbed  writing  of  Li  Ho. 

'*I  can't  make  out  whether  it  is  'Hon.  Mrs.  Professor 
Spence'  or  whether  the  'Mrs.'  is  'Mr.'  Perhaps  you 
had  better  open  it,  Benis." 

"Perhaps,  later."  Spence  slipped  the  packet  into  his 
pocket.  "It  can't  have  an}i:hing  to  do  with  our  present 
problem.  ...  I  must  make  some  telephone  inquiries. 
But  if  Desire  has  gone,  Aunt,  we  may  as  well  face  facts. 
She  does  not  want  me  to  follow  her." 

"Doesn't  she?"  Aunt  Caroline  surveyed  him  with  a 
pitying  smile.  "How  stupid  men  are!  But  go  along 
to  the  library.  You've  had  no  decent  breakfast.  I'll 
send  you  in  something  to  eat.  As  for  Bainbridge — 
leave  that  to  me."  .  .  . 

How  curiously  does  a  room  change  with  the  changing 
mind  of  its  occupant.  Benis  Spence  had  known  his  li- 
brary in  many  moods.  It  had  been  a  refuge;  it  had 
been  a  prison;  it  had  been  a  place  of  dreams.  He  had 
liked  to  fancy  that  something  of  himself  stayed  there — 
something  which  met  him,  warm  and  welcoming,  when 
he  came  in  at  the  door.  He  had  liked  to  play  that  the 
room  had  a  soul.  And,  after  he  had  brought  Desire 
home,  the  idea  had  grown  until  he  had  seemed  to  feel  an 
actual  presence  in  its  cool  seclusion.  But  if  presence 
there  had  been,  it  was  gone  now.  The  place  was  empty. 
The  air  hung  dull  and  lifeless.  The  chairs  stood  stiff 
against  the  w^all,  the  watching  books  had  no  greeting. 
Only  Yorick  swung  and  flapped  in  his  cage,  his  throat  full 
of  mutterings. 

It  is  all  very  well  to  be  a  good  loser.  But  loss  is  bitter. 
Here  was  loss,  stark  and  staring. 


278  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

Spence  walked  over  to  the  neatly  tidied  desk  and  there, 
for  an  instant,  the  cold  finger  lifted  from  his  heart.  A 
letter  was  lying  on  the  clean  blotter — she  had  not  gone 
without  a  word,  then!  She  had  slipped  in  here  to  say 
good-bye.  ...  A  very  little  is  much  to  him  who  has 
nothing. 

The  letter  was  brief.  Only  a  few  words  written  hur- 
riedly with  a  spluttering  pen : 

"I  am  going.  Bents.  I  think  we  are  both  sure  now. 
But  please — please  do  not  pity  me.  Love  is  too  big  for 
pity.  You  ha^e  given  me  so  much,  give  me  this  one  thing 
more — the  understanding  that  can  believe  me  when  I  say 
that  I,  too,  o/m  glad  to  give. 

''Desire.'' 

Benis  laid  the  letter  softly  down  upon  the  ordered 
desk.  No,  he  need  not  pity  her.  She  had  had  the  cour- 
age to  let  little  things  go.  She,  who  had  demanded  so 
royally  of  life,  now  made  no  outcry  that  the  price  was 
high.  Well,  ...  it  need  not  be  so  high,  perhaps.  He 
would  make  it  as  easy  as  might  be. 

The  parrot  was  trying  to  attract  him  w4th  his  usual 
goblin  croaks.     Benis  rubbed  its  bent,  green  head. 

"You'll  miss  her,  too,  old  chap,"  he  said,  adding  an- 
grily, "dashed  sentimentality!" 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice  steadied  him.  He  must 
be  careful.  Above  all,  he  must  not  sink  into  self-pity. 
He  must  go  back  to  his  work.  It  had  meant  everything 
to  him  once.  It  must  mean  everything  to  him  again. 
If  he  were  a  man  at  all  he  must  fight  through  this  inertia. 
Life  had  tr.mbled  him  out  of  his  shell,  played  with  him 
for  an  hour,  and  now  would  tumble  him  back  again — 
no,  by  Jove,  he  refused  to  be  tumbled  back !  He  would 
fight  through.  He  would  come  out  somewhere,  some- 
time. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  279 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  ought  to  be  thankful  that 
Desire  at  least  was  going  to  be  happy.  But  he  did  not 
feel  glad.  He  was  not  even  sure  that  she  was  going  to 
be  happy.  Something  kept  stubbornly  insisting  that  she 
would  have  been  much  happier  with  him.  Quite  with- 
out prejudice,  had  they  not  been  extraordinarily  well 
suited?  He  put  the  question  up  to  fate.  The  hardest 
thing  about  the  whole  hard  matter  was  the  insistent  feel- 
ing that  a  second  mistake  had  been  made.  John  and 
Desire — ^his  mind  refused  to  see  any  fitness  in  the  mating. 
Yet  this  very  perversity  of  love  was  something  which 
he  had  long  recognized  with  the  complacence  of  assured 
psychology. 

He  heard  Mary's  voice  in  the  hall.  He  had  forgotten 
Mary.  He  hoped  she  would  not  tap  upon  the  library 
door — as  she  sometimes  did.  No,  thank  heaven,  she  had 
gone  upstairs!  That  was  an  odd  idea  of  Aunt  Caro- 
line's. If  he  had  felt  like  smiling  he  would  have  smiled 
at  it.     Desire  jealous  of  Mary?     Ridiculous.  .  .  . 

**Here  comes  old  Bones,"  said  Yorick  conversationally. 

The  professor  started.  It  was  a  phrase  he  had  him- 
self taught  the  bird  during  that  time  of  illness  when 
John's  visit  had  been  the  bright  spot  in  long  dull  days. 
It  had  amused  them  both  that  the  parrot  seldom  made 
a  mistake,  seeming  to  know,  long  before  his  master, 
when  the  doctor  was  near. 

But  today?  Surely  Yorick  was  wrong  today.  John 
would  not  come  today.  Would  never  come  again — but 
did  anyone  save  John  race  up  the  drive  in  that  aban- 
doned manner?  Benis  frowned.  He  did  not  want  to 
see  John.  He  would  not  see  him!  But  as  he  went  to 
leave  the  library  by  one  door  John  threw  open  the  other 
and  stood  for  an  instant  blinded  by  the  comparative  dim- 
ness within. 

"Where  are  you,  Benis?" 


28o  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


"Here." 

Spence  closed  the  door.  His  brief  anger  was  swal- 
lowed up  in  something  else.  Never,  even  in  France,  had 
he  seen  John  look  like  this. 

''We're  a  precious  pair  of  dupes!"  began  John  in  a 
high  voice  and  without  preliminaries.  "Prize  idiots — ■ 
imbeciles !" 

•'Very  likely,"  said  Benis.  "But  you're  not  talking 
to  New  York." 

He  made  no  move  to  take  the  paper  which  John  held 
out  in  a  shaking  hand. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  he  asked  sternly. 

"W^hat's  the  matter  with  me?  Oh,  nothing.  What's 
the  matter  with  all  of  us?  Crazy — that's  all!  Here — 
read  it!  It's  from  Desire.  Must  have  posted  it  last 
night." 

Spence  put  the  letter  aside. 

"U  you  have  news,  you  had  better  tell  it.  That  is  if 
you  can  talk  in  an  ordinary  voice." 

John  laughed  harshly.  "My  voice  is  all  right.  Not 
so  dashed  cool  as  yours.     Read  it!" 

Spence  took  the  sheet  held  out  to  him;  but  he  had  no 
wish  to  read  Desire's  words  to  John. 

"If  it  is  a  private  letter "  he  began. 

"Oh,  don't  be  a  bigger  fool  than  you  have  been !  Un- 
less," with  sudden  suspicion,  "you've  known  all  along? 
Perhaps  you  have.  Even  you  could  hardly  have  been 
so  completely  duped." 

"If  you  will  tell  me  what  you  are  talking  about " 

"Read  it.     It  is  plain  enough." 

The  professor  slowly  opened  the  folded  sheet.  It  was 
a  longer  note  than  the  one  she  had  left  for  him. 

''Dear  John/'  he  read,  ''if  I  had  known  yesterday  that 
I  would  leave  so  soon  I  could  have  said  good-bye.  But 
my  decision  zuas  made  suddenly.     I  think  yon  must  have 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  281 

seen  how  it  is  with  Benis  and  Mary  and  I  can't  go  with- 
out telling  you  that  I  knew  about  it  from  the  first.  I 
don't  zmnt  you  to  blame  Benis.  He  told  me  about  it  be- 
fore we  were  married,  and  I  took  the  risk  with  my  eyes 
open.  How  coidd  he,  or  I,  have  guessed  that  he  had 
given  up  hope  too  soon? — and  anyway,  it  wasn't  in  the 
bargain  that  I  shoidd  love  him. — It  just  happened. — He 
is  desperately  unhappy.  Help  him  if  you  can. — Your  af- 
fectionate Desire." 

''My  affectionate  Desire!"  mocked  John,  still  in  that 
high,  strained  voice  which  now  was  perilously  near  a 
sob.  'That — that  is  what  I  was  to  her,  a  convenient 
friend!  You — you  had  it  all.  And  let  it  go,  for  the 
sake  of  that  blond-haired,  deer-eyed,  fashion  plate '^ 

"That's  enough !  You  are  not  an  hysterical  girl.  Sit 
down.  ...  I  can't  understand  this,  John.    I  thought " 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  a  long  look  in  which 
distrust  at  least  was  faced  and  ended.  The  excited  flush 
died  out  of  John's  cheek.  He  looked  weary  and  shame- 
faced. 

"I  thought  she  loved  you,"  said  Spence  simply. 

The  doctor's  eyes  fell.  It  was  his  honest  admission 
that  he,  too,  had  thought  this  possible. 

"Even  now,"  went  on  the  professor  haltingly,  "I  can- 
not believe  ...  it  doesn't  seem  possible  ...  me? 
.  .  .  John,  does  the  letter  mean  that  Desire  loves  me?" 

John  Rogers  nodded,  turning  away. 

Silence  fell  between  them. 

"What  will  you  do — about  the  other?"  asked  the  doc- 
tor presently. 

"What  other?  There  is  no  other.  I  loved  Desire 
from  the  very  first  night  I  saw  her.  I  didn't  know  it, 
then.  It  was  all  new.  And,"  with  a  bitter  smile,  "so 
different  from  what  one  expects.     Mary  was  never  any- 


282  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

thing  but  the  figure  of  straw  I  told  you  of.  I  thought," 
naively,  *'that  Desire  had  forgotten  Mary." 

"Did  you  ?"  said  John.  "Why  man,  the  woman  doesn't 
live  who  would  forget!  And  Miss  Davis  filled  the  bill 
to  the  last  item — even  the  name  'Mary'." 

"Oh  what  a  pal  was  M-Mary!"  croaked  Yorick 
obligingly. 

"The  bird,  too !"  said  John.  "Everyone  doing  his  little 
best  to  sustain  the  illusion — even,  if  I  am  any  judge,  the 
lady  herself." 

But  Benis  Spence  had  never  wasted  time  upon  the  lady 
herself.  And  he  did  not  begin  now.  With  a  face  which 
had  suddenly  become  years  younger  he  was  searching 
frantically  in  his  desk  for  the  transcontinental  time-table. 


XXXVI 

'l^HE  train  crawled. 

-*-  Although  it  was  a  fast  express  whose  speed  might 
well  provoke  the  admiration  of  travellers,  in  one  traveller 
it  provoked  nothing  save  grim  endurance.  Beside  the 
consuming  impatience  of  Benis  Hamilton  Spence,  its 
best  effort  was  a  little  thing.  When  it  slowed,  he  fidgeted, 
when  it  stopped  he  fumed.  He  wanted  to  get  out  and 
push  it. 

Five  days — four — three — two — a  day  and  a  half — the 
vastness  of  the  spaces  over  which  it  must  carry  him  grew 
endless  as  his  mind  continually  tried  to  span  them.  He 
felt  a  distinct  grievance  that  any  country  should  be  so 
wide. 

"Making  good  time!"  said  a  genial  person,  travelling 
in  the  tobacco  trade.  The  professor  eyed  him  with  sus- 
picion, as  a  man  deranged  by  optimism. 

The  train  crawled. 

Spence  removed  his  eyes  from  the  passing  landscape 
and  tried  to  forget  how  slowly  it  was  passing.  He  saw 
himself  at  the  end  of  his  journey.  He  saw  Desire.  He 
saw  a  grudging  moment,  or  second  perhaps,  devoted  to 

explanation.      And    then How   happy   they   were 

going  to  be!  (H  the  train  would  only  forget  to  stop  at 
stations  it  might  get  somewhere.)  How  wonderful  it 
would  be  to  feel  the  empty  world  grow  full  again!  To 
raise  one's  eyes,  just  casually,  and  to  see — Desire.  To 
speak,  in  just  one's  ordinary  voice,  and  to  know  she  heard. 
To  stretch  out  one's  hand  and  feel  that  she  was  there. 
(What  were  they  doing  now?  Putting  on  more  cars? 
Outrageous!)    He  would  even  write  that  book  presently, 

283 


284  THE     WINDOW-GAZKR 

when  he  got  around  to  it.  (When  one  felt  sure  one  could 
write.)  But  first  they  would  go  away,  just  he  and  she, 
east  of  the  sun  and  west  of  the  moon.  They  would  sit 
together  somewhere,  as  they  used  to  sit  on  the  sun- 
warmed  grass  at  Friendly  Bay,  and  say  nothing  at  all. 
.  .  .  How  nearly  they  had  missed  it  .  .  .  but  it  would 
be  all  right  now.  Love,  whom  they  had  both  denied,  had 
both  given  and  forgiven.  It  would  be  all  right,  it  must  be 
all  right,  now!     (But  how  the  train  crawled.) 

Poor  John,  poor  old  Bones !  What  a  blow  it  had  been 
for  him.     Although  he  should  certainly  have  had  more 

sense  than  to  fancy Well,  of  course,  a  man  can 

fancy  anything  it  he  wants  it  badly  enough.  Spence 
was  honestly  sorry  for  John — that  is,  he  would  be  when 
he  had  time  to  consider  John's  case.  But  John,  too, 
would  be  all  right  presently.  (Why  under  heaven  do 
trains  need  to  wait  ten  minutes  while  silly  people  walk  on 
platforms  without  hats?)  John  would  marry  a  nice  girl. 
Not  a  girl  like  Desire — not  that  type  of  girl  at  all. 
Someone  quite  different,  but  nice.  A  fair  girl,  like  that 
nurse  he  had  had  in  his  office.  John  might  be  very  happy 
with  a  wife  like  that  .  .  . 

It  was  not  until  the  fourth  night  out  that  the  professor 
remembered  the  packet  from  Li  Ho.  It  had  loomed  so 
small  among  the  events  of  that  day  of  revelations  that 
he  had  completely  forgotten  it.  He  did  not  even  re- 
member putting  it  in  his  pocket — but  there  it  was,  still 
unopened,  and  promising  some  slight  distraction  from  the 
wearying  contemplation  of  the  crawling  train.  It  would 
shut  out,  too,  the  annoyance  of  the  tobacco  traveller, 
smoking  with  an  offensive  leisureliness,  and  declaring,  in 
defiance  of  all  feeUng,  that  they  were  "Sharp  on  time 
and  going  some !" 

With  a  reviving  interest  in  something  outside  the  time^ 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  285 

table,  Spence  cut  the  string  and  opened  the  yellow  packet. 
Is  Bmall  note-book  fell  out  and  a  letter — two  letters,  and 
O'  e  of  them  in  the  unmistakable  writing  of  Li  Ho  him- 
&^-1f.     This  latter,  the  professor  opened  first. 

''Honorable  Spence  and  Esteemed  Professor,  dear 
Sir/'  wrote  Li  Ho.  ''Permit  felicity  to  include  book  be- 
long departed  parent  of  valued  wife.  Dececised  lady  write 
as  per  day.  Li  Ho  extract  and  think  proper  missy  to 
know.  Honorable  Boss  head  much  loony.  Secure  that 
missy  remain  removed  if  desiring  safety.  Belong  much 
danger  here  since  married  as  per  also  enclosed.  Exalted 
self  be  insignificantly  warned  by  j^erson  of  no  intelligence, 
Li  Ho," 

Fartljer  down,  in  a  corner  of  the  sheet  was  this  sentence : 

''Permit  to  notably  add  that  respected  lady  departed 
life  Jan.  14." 

Li  Ho  had  certainly  surpassed  himself.  The  bewil- 
dered professor  forgot  about  the  time-table  entirely. 
What  Chinese  meaning  lay  behind  this  jumble  of  dic- 
tionary words?  That  they  were  not  used  at  haphazard 
Spence  knew.  Li  Ho  had  some  distinct  meaning  to  con- 
ve)^ — had  indeed  already  conveyed  it  in  the  one  outstand- 
ing word  ''danger."  For  an  instant  the  professor's  mind 
sickened  with  that  weakness  which  had  been  his  dreadful 
legacy  of  war.  But  it  passed  immediately.  Something 
stronger^  deeper  in,  took  quiet  command.  Desire  was  in 
danger !  Shock  has  a  way  at  times  of  giving  back  what 
shock  has  taken.  Spence  became  his  own  man  once  more 
— cool,  ready. 

With  infinite  care  he  went  over  the  Chinaman's  dis- 
jointed sentences.    They  had  been  written  under  stress. 


286  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

That  much  presented  no  difficulty.  Li  Ho,  the  imperturb- 
able, had  permitted  himself  a  fit  of  nerves  .  .  .  Some- 
thing must  have  happened.  Something  new.  Something 
which  threatened  a  danger  not  sufficiently  emphasized  be- 
fore. In  his  former  letter  Li  Ho  had  indeed  intimated 
that  a  return  was  not  desirable,  but  it  had  been  an  intima- 
tion based  on  general  principles  only.  This  was  different. 
This  had  all  the  marks  of  urgent  warning.  "No  more 
safe  being  married  as  per  inclosed.''  This  cryptic  remark 
might  mean  that  further  enlightenment  was  to  be  sought 
in  the  enclosures. 

Spence  picked  up  the  second  letter.  It  was  addressed 
to  Dr.  Herbert  Farr  at  Vancouver,  and  was  merely  a 
formal  notice  from  a  firm  of  English  solicitors — ^post- 
marked London — a  well-known  firm,  probably,  from  the 
address  on  their  letterhead. 

*'Dr.  Herbert  Farr, 

Vancouver,  B.  C, 
Dear  Sir: 

As  executors  in  the  estate  of  Mrs,  Henry  Strangeways 
we  beg  to  inform  you  that  the  allowance  paid  to  you  for 
the  maintenance  of  Miss  Desire  Farr  is  hereby  discon- 
tinued. This  action  is  taken  under  the  terms  of  our  late 
clienfs  will,  whereby  such  allowance  ceases  upon  the 
marriage  of  the  said  Desire  Farr  or  her  voluntary  removal 
from  your  roof  and  care. 

Obediently  yours, 

Hervey  &  Ellis/' 

The  professor  whistled.  Here  was  enlightenment  in- 
deed! A  very  sufficient  explanation  of  the  old  man's 
grim  determination  to  block  any  self-dependence  on  De- 
sire's part  which  would  mean  ^'removal  from"  his  **care." 
Here  was  someone  paying  a  steady  (and  perhaps  a  fat) 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  287 

allowance  for  the  young  girl's  maintenance — someone  of 
whom  she  herself  had  certainly  never  heard  and  of  whose 
bounty  she  remained  completely  ignorant.  It  was  easy 
enough  now  to  follow  Li  Ho's  reasoning.  If  it  was  for 
this  allowance,  and  this  alone,  that  the  old  doctor  had 
kept  Desire  with  him,  long  after  her  presence  had  become 
a  matter  of  indifference  or  even  of  distaste,  the  ending  of 
the  allowance  meant  also  the  ending  of  his  tolerance. 
"No  more  safe,  being  married/'  The  difference,  in  Li 
Ho's  opinion,  was  all  the  difference  between  comparative 
safety  and  real  danger.  Money !  As  long  as  Desire  had 
meant  money  there  had  been  an  instinct  in  the  old  scoun- 
drel which,  even  in  his  moon-devil  fits,  had  protected  the 
goose  which  laid  the  golden  eggs.  But  now — now  this 
inhibition  was  removed,  Desire,  no  longer  valuable,  was 
no  longer  safeguarded.  And  who  could  tell  what  added 
grudge  of  rage  and  vengeance  might  be  darkly  harbored 
in  the  depths  of  that  crafty  and  unbalanced  mind? 

And  Desire,  unwarned,  was  even  now  almost  within 
the  madman's  reach.  .  .  .  Spence  sternly  refused  to  think 
of  this  .  .  .  there  was  time  yet  .  .  .  plenty  of  time. 
.  .  .  The  thing  to  do  was  to  keep  cool  .  .  .  steady  now  1 

''Kind  of  pretty,  going  through^ these  here  mountains 
by  moonlight,"  observed  the  tobacco  traveller,  inclined 
to  be  genial  even  under  difficulties.  ''She'll  be  full  to- 
morrow night.  Queer  thing  that  them  there  prohibition- 
ists can't  keep  the  moon  from  getting  full !"  He  laughed 
in  hearty  appreciation  of  his  own  cleverness. 

The  professor,  a  polite  man,  tried  to  smile.  And  then, 
suddenly,  the  meaning  of  what  had  been  said  came  home 
to  him. 

Tomorrow  night  would  be  full  moon  1 

He  had  forgotten  about  the  moon. 

''Queer  cuss,"  thought  the  travelling  man.     "Stares  at 


288  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

you  polite  enough  but  never  says  anything.  No  conversa- 
tion.   Just  about  as  Hvely  as  an  undertaker." 

But  if  Benis  had  forgotten  to  remove  his  eyes  from  the 
travelling  man,  he  did  not  know  it.  He  did  not  see  him. 
He  saw  nothing  but  moonlight — moonlight  across  an 
uncovered  floor  and  the  white  dimness  of  a  bed  in  the 
shadow!  .  .  .  But  he  must  keep  cool  .  .  .  was  there 
time  to  stop  Desire  with  a  telegram?  She  was  only  a 
day  ahead  .  .  .  no — he  was  just  too  late  for  that.  He 
knew  the  time-table  by  heart.  Her  train  was  already 
in  .  .  .  impossible  to  reach  her  now ! 

Fear  having  reached  its  limit,  his  mind  swung  slowly 
back  to  reason.  .  .  .  There  was,  he  told  himself,  no  occa- 
sion for  panic.  Li  Ho  might  have  exaggerated.  Besides, 
a  danger  known  is  almost  a  danger  met.  And  Li  Ho 
knew.  Li  Ho  would  be  there.  W^hen  Desire  came  he 
would  guard  her.  ...  A  few  hours  only  .  .  .  until  he 
could  get  to  her.  .  .  .  She  was  safe  for  tonight  at  least. 
She  would  not  attempt  to  cross  the  Inlet,  until  the  morn- 
ing. She  would  have  to  hire  a  launch — a  thing  no  woman 
would  attempt  to  do  at  that  hour  of  night.  She  was  in 
no  hurry.  She  would  stay  somewhere  in  the  city  and 
get  herself  taken  to  Farr's  Landing  in  the  morning.  .  .  . 
Through  the  day,  too,  she  would  be  safe  .  .  .  and,  to- 
morrow night,  he,  Benis,  would  be  there.  .  .  .  But  not 
until  late  .  .  .  not  until  after  the  moon  .  .  .  better  not 
think  of  the  moon  .  .  .  think  of  Li  Ho  ...  Li  Ho 
would  surely  watch  .  .  . 

He  lay  in  his  berth  and  told  himself  this  over  and  over. 
The  train  swung  on.  The  cool,  high  air  of  the  mountains 
crept  through  the  screened  window.  They  were  swinging 
through  a  land  of  awful  and  gigantic  beauty.  The  white 
moon  turned  the  snow  peaks  into  glittering  fountains 
from  which  pu'-e  light  cascaded  down,  down  into  the 
blackness  at  their  base  .  .  .  one  more  morning  .  .  .  one 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  289 

more  day  .  .  .  Vancouver  at  night  ...  a  launch  .  .  . 
Desire ! 

Meanwhile  one  must  keep  steady.  The  professor  drew 
from  its  yellow  wrapping  the  little  note-book  which  had 
been  the  second  of  Li  Ho's  enclosures.  It  had  belonged, 
if  Li  Ho's  information  were  correct,  to  Desire's  mother — 
a  diary,  probably.  ''Deceased  lady  lurite  as  per  day." 
Spence  hesitated.  It  was  Desire's  property.  He  felt  a 
delicacy  in  examining  it.  But  so  many  mistakes  had  al- 
ready been  made  through  want  of  knowledge,  he  dared 
not  risk  another  one.  And  Li  Ho  had  probably  other 
than  sentimental  reasons  for  sending  the  book. 

He  shut  out  the  mountains  and  the  moonlight,  and 
clicking  on  the  berth-light,  turned  the  dog-eared  pages 
reverently.  Only  a  few  were  written  upon.  It  was  a 
diary,  as  he  had  guessed,  or  rather  brief  bits  of  one.  The 
writing  was  small  but  very  clear  in  spite  of  the  fading 
ink.  The  entries  began  abruptly.  It  was  plain  that  there 
had  been  another  book  of  which  this  was  a  continuation. 

The  first  date  was  November  ist — no  year  given. 

'Tt  is  raining.  The  Indians  say  the  winter  will  be 
very  wet.  Desire  plays  in  the  rain  and  thrives.  She  is 
a  lovely  child,  high-spirited — not  like  me." 

''November  19th — He  was  worse  this  month.  I  think 
he  gets  steadily  a  little  worse.  I  dare  not  say  what  I 
think.  He  would  say  that  I  had  fancies.  No  one  else 
sees  anything  save  harmless  eccentricity, — except  perhaps 
Li  Ho.     But  I  am  terrified. 

''December  7th — I  tried  once  more  to  get  away.  He 
found  me  quickly.  It  isn't  easy  for  a  woman  with  a  child 
to  hide — without  money.  For  myself  I  can  stand  it — • 
my  own  fault !    But — my  little  girl ! 

"December  15th — I  have  been  ill.  Such  a  terrible  ex- 
perience. My  one  thought  was  the  dread  of  dying.  I 
must  live.    I  cannot  leave  Desire — here. 


290  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

"December  20th — He  bought  Desire  new  shoes  and  a 
frock  today.  It  is  strange,  but  he  seems  to  take  a  certain 
care  of  her.  Why?  I  do  not  know.  I  have  wondered 
about  his  motives  until  I  fancy  things.  What  motive 
could  he  have  .  .  .  except  that  maybe  he  is  not  all  evil? 

Maybe  be  cares  for  the  child.     She  is  so  sweet No. 

I  must  not  deceive  myself.  Whatever  his  reason  is,  I 
know  that  it  is  not  that. 

"January  9th — A  strange  thing  happened  today.  I 
found  a  torn  envelope  bearing  the  name  of  Harry's  Eng- 
lish lawyers.  I  have  seen  the  same  kind  of  envelope  in 
Harry's  hands  more  than  once.  They  used  to  send  him 
his  remittance,  I  think.  What  can  this  man  have  to  do 
with  English  lawyers  ?  I  am  frightened.  But  for  once  I 
am  more  angry  than  afraid.  I  must  watch.  If  he  has 
dared  to  write  to  Harry's  people " 

The  writing  of  the  next  entry  had  lost  its  clearness. 
It  was  almost  illegible. 

"January  13th — How  could  he!  How  could  he  sink  so 
low!  I  have  seen  the  lawyer's  letter.  He  has  taken 
money.  From  Harry's  mother — for  Desire.  And  this 
began  within  a  month  of  our  marriage.  It  shames  me 
so  that  I  cannot  live.  Yet  I  must  live.  I  can't  leave  the 
child.  But  I  can  stop  this  hateful  traffic  in  a  dead  man's 
honor.    I  will  write  myself  to  England." 

This  was  the  last  fragment.  Spence  looked  again  at 
the  almost  erased  date — January  13th.  He  felt  the  sweat 
on  his  forehead  for,  beside  that  date,  the  unexplained 
postscript  of  Li  Ho's  letter  took  on  a  ghastly  significance. 

''Respected  lady  depart  life  on  January  14th" 

She  had  not  lived  to  write  to  England ! 


XXXVII 

TT  seemed  to  Benis  Spence  afterward  that  during  that 
■■■  last  day,  while  the  train  plunged  steadily  down  to  sea 
level,  he  passed  every  boundary  ever  set  for  the  patience 
of  man.  It  was  a  lovely,  sparkling  day.  The  rivers 
leaped  and  danced  in  sunshine.  Long  shadows  swept  like 
beating  wings  along  the  mountain  sides.  The  air  blew 
cool  and  sweet  upon  his  lips.  But  for  once  he  was  deaf 
and  blind  and  heedless  of  it  all.  He  thought  only  of  the 
night — of  the  night  and  the  moon. 

It  came  at  last — a  night  as  lovely  as  the  day.  Benis 
sat  with  his  hand  upon  his  watch.  They  were  running 
sharp  on  time.  There  could  be  nothing  to  delay  them 
now — barring  an  accident.  Instantly  his  mind  created  an 
accident,  providing  all  the  ghastly  details.  He  saw  him- 
self helpless,  pinned  down,  while  the  full  moon  climbed 
and  sailed  across  the  skies.  .  .  . 

But  there  was  no  accident.  A  cheery  bustle  soon  be- 
gan in  the  car.  Suitcases  were  lifted  up,  unstrapped  and 
strapped  again.  Women  took  their  hats  from  the  big 
paper  bags  which  hung  like  balloons  between  the  win- 
dows. There  was  a  general  shaking  and  fixing  and  sort- 
ing of  possessions.  Only  the  porter  remained  serene. 
He  knew  exactly  how  long  it  would  take  him  to  brush 
his  car  and  did  not  believe  in  beginning  too  soon.  Benis 
kept  his  eye  on  the  porter.     He  stirred  at  last. 

"Breshyo'  coat,  Suh?" 

The  professor  allowed  himself  to  be  brushed  and  even 
proffered  the  usual  tip,  so  powerful  is  the  push  of  habit. 
In  the  narrow  corridor  by  the  door  he  waited  politely 
while  the  lady  who  wouldn't  trust  her  suitcase  to  the 

291 


292  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

porter  got  stuck  sideways  and  had  to  be  pried  out.  But 
when  once  his  foot  descended  upon  the  station  platform, 
he  was  a  man  again.    The  kilHng  inaction  was  over. 

With  the  quiet  speed  of  one  who  knows  that  hurry  de- 
feats haste,  he  set  about  materiaHzing  the  plans  which 
he  had  made  upon  the  train.  And  circumstance,  repent- 
ant of  former  caprice,  seemed  willing  to  serve.  The  very 
first  taxi-man  he  questioned  was  an  intelligent  fellow 
who  knew  more  about  \"ancouver  than  its  various  hotels. 
A  launch  ?  Yes,  he  knew  where  a  launch  might  be  hired, 
also  a  man  who  could  run  it.    Provided,  of  course 

Spence  produced  an  inspiring  roll  of  bills.  The  taxi- 
man  grinned. 

''Sure,  if  you've  got  the  oof  it's  easy  enough,"  he  as- 
sured him.  "Wake  up  the  whole  town  and  charter  a 
steamer  if  you  don't  care  what  they  soak  you."  He  con- 
sidered a  moment.     "  'Tisn't  a  dope  job,  is  it?" 

Spence  looked  blank. 

"What  I  mean  to  say  is,  what  kind  of  man  do  you 
want?" 

"Any  man  who  will  take  me  where  I  want  to  go." 

The  taxi-man  nodded.    "All  right.    That's  easy." 

In  less  time  than  even  to  the  professor  seemed  possible 
the  required  boat-man  was  produced  and  bargained  with. 
That  is  to  say  he  was  requested  to  mention  his  terms 
and  produce  his  launch,  both  of  which  he  did  without 
hesitancy.    And  again  circumstance  was  kind. 

"If  it's  Farr's  Landing  you  want,"  said  the  boat-man, 
leading  a  precarious  way  down  a  dark  wharf,  "I  guess 
you've  come  to  the  right  party.  'Taint  a  place  many  folks 
know.  But  I  ran  in  there  once  to  borrow  some  gas. 
Queer  gink  that  there  Chinaman!  Anyone  know  you're 
coming?    Anyone  likely  to  show  a  light  or  anything?" 

The  professor  said  that  his  visit  was  unexpected. 
They  would  have  to  manage  without  a  light. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  293 

The  boat-man  feared  that,  in  that  case,  the  terms  might 
*'run  to"  a  bit  more.  But,  upon  receiving  a  wink  from 
the  taxi-man,  did  not  waste  time  in  stating  how  far  they 
might  run,  but  devoted  himself  to  the  encouragement  of 
a  cold  engine  and  the  business  of  getting  under  way. 

Once  more  Spence  Avas  reduced  to  passive  waiting. 
But  the  taste  of  the  Gait  and  the  smell  of  it  brought  back 
the  picture  of  Desire  as  he  had  seen  her  first — strong, 
self-confident.  He  had  thought  these  qualtities  ungirlish 
at  the  time;  now  he  thanked  God  for  the  memory  of 
them. 

It  had  been  dark  enough  when  they  left  the  wharf  but 
soon  a  soft  brightness  grew. 

''Here  she  comes!"  said  his  pilot  w^ith  satisfaction. 
"Some  moon,  ain't  she?" 

"Hurry!"  There  was  an  urge  in  the  professor's  voice 
which  fitted  in  but  poorly  with  the  magic  of  the  night. 
The  boat-man  felt  it  and  wondered.  He  tried  a  little 
conversation. 

"Know  the  old  Doc.  well?"  he  inquired.  "Queer  old 
duck,  eh?  And  that  Li  Ho  is  about  the  most  Chinky 
Chinaman  I  ever  seen.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I  never  paid 
him  back  that  gas  I  borrowed." 

"Hasn't  he  been  across  lately?"  asked  Spence,  con- 
trolling his  voice. 

"Haven't  seen  him.  But  then  'tisn't  as  if  I  w^as  out 
looking  for  him.  Used  to  be  a  right  pretty  girl  come 
over  sometimes,  the  old  Doc's  daughter.  Hasn't  been 
around  for  a  long  time.  Maybe  you're  a  relative  or  some- 
thing?" 

"See  here,"  said  Spence.  "It's  on  account  of  the  young 
lady  that  I  am  going  there  tonight.  I  have  reason  to  fear 
that  she  may  be  in  danger." 

"That  so?"  The  boat-man's  comfortably  slouched 
shoulders  squared.    He  leaned  over  and  did  something  to 


294  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

his  engine.  *'In  that  case  we'll  take  a  chance  or  two. 
Hold  tight,  we're  bucking  the  tide-rip.  Lucky  we've  got 
the  moon!" 

Yes,  they  had  the  moon!  With  growing  despair  the 
professor  watched  her  white  loveliness  drag  a  slipping 
mantle  over  the  dark  water.  The  same  light  must  lie  upon 
the  clearing  on  the  mountain  .  .  .  where  was  Li  Ho? 
Was  he  awake — and  watching?  Had  he  warned  the 
girl?  Or  was  she  sleeping,  weary  with  the  journey,  while 
only  one  frail  old  Chinaman  stood  between  her  and  a 
terror  too  grim  to  guess  .  .  . 

A  long  interval  .  .  .  the  sailing  moon  .  .  .  the  swish 
of  parting  water  as  the  launch  cut  through  .  .  . 

''Must  be  thereabouts  now,"  said  the  boat-man  sud- 
denly. 'I'll  slow  her  down.  Keep  your  eye  skinned  for 
the  landing." 

A  period  of  endless  waiting,  while  the  launch  crept 
cautiously  along  the  rocky  shore — then  a  darker  shadow 
in  the  shadows  and  the  boat-man's  excited  ''Got  it!"  The 
launch  slipped  neatly  in  beside  the  float. 

"Want  any  help?"  asked  the  boat-man  curiously  as  his 
passenger  sprang  from  the  moving  launch. 

Spence  did  not  hear  him.  He  was  already  across  the 
sodden  planks.  Only  the  up-trail  now  lay  between  him 
and  the  end — or  the  beginning.  The  shadows  of  the  trees 
stretched  waving  arms.  He  felt  strong  as  steel,  light  as 
air  as  he  sprang  up  the  wooded  path.  .  .  . 

It  was  just  as  he  had  pictured  it — the  cottage  in  its 
square  of  silver  .  .  .  the  sailing  moon! 

But  the  cottage  was  empty. 

He  knew  at  once  that  it  was  empty.  He  dared  not  let 
himself  know  it.  With  a  doggedness  which  defied  con- 
viction, he  dragged  his  feet,  suddenly  heavy,  across  the 
rough  grass.  The  door  on  the  veranda  was  open.  Why 
not? — the  door  of  an  empty  house.  ...     He  went  in. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  295 

The  moonlight  showed  the  old  familiar  things,  the  chinks 
in  the  wall,  the  rickety  table,  the  couch,  the  stairway! 
.  .  .  He  stumbled  to  the  stairway.  He  forced  his  leaden 
feet  to  mount  it.  .  .  .  It  was  pitch  dark  there.  The 
upper  doors  were  shut.  .  .  .  ''Her  door — on  the  right." 
He  said  this  to  himself  as  if  prompting  a  stupid  little 
boy  with  a  lesson.  ...  In  the  darkness  his  hand  felt  for 
the  door-knob  .  .  .  but  why  open  the  door  ?  .  .  .  There 
was  no  life  behind  it.  He  knew  that.  .  .  .  There  was 
no  life  anywhere  in  this  horrible  emptiness.  .  .  .  "Death, 
then."    He  muttered,  as  he  flung  back  the  door. 

There  was  nothing  there  .  .  .  only  moonlight  .  .  . 
nothing  .  .  .  yes,  something  on  the  floor  .  .  .  some- 
thing light  and  lacy,  crushed  into  shapelessness  .  .  . 
Desire's  hat. 

He  picked  it  up.  The  wires  of  its  chiifon  frame, 
broken  and  twisted,  fell  limp  in  his  hand. 

There  was  no  other  sign  in  the  room.  The  bed  was 
untouched.  The  Thing  which  had  wrecked  its  insatiate 
rage  upon  the  hat  had  not  lingered.  Spence  went  out 
slowly.  There  would  be  time  for  everything  now — since 
time  had  ceased  to  matter.  He  laid  the  hat  aside  gently. 
There  might  be  work  for  his  hands  to  do. 

With  mechanical  care  he  searched  the  cottage.  No 
trace  of  disturbance  met  him  anywhere  until  he  reached 
the  kitchen.  Something  had  happened  there.  Over- 
turned chairs  and  broken  table — a  door  half  off  its  hinge. 
Someone  had  fled  from  the  house  this  way  .  .  .  fled 
where  ? 

There  were  so  many  places ! 

In  his  mind's  eye  Spence  saw  them  ...  the  steep  and 
sHppery  cliff,  with  shingle  far  below  ...  the  clumps  of 
dense  bracken  .  .  .  the  deep,  dark  crevices  where  water 
splashed!  .  .  . 


296  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

He  went  outside.  It  was  not  so  bright  now.  There 
were  clouds  on  the  moon.  One  side  of  the  clearing  lay 
wholly  in  shadow.  He  waited  and,  as  the  light  bright- 
ened, he  saw  the  thing  he  sought — trampled  bracken,  a 
broken  bush.  .  .  .  He  followed  the  trail  with  a  slow 
certitude  of  which  ordinarily  he  w^ould  have  been  in- 
capable. ...  It  did  not  lead  very  far.  The  trees  thinned 
abruptly.  A  rounded  moss-covered  rock  rose  up  between 
him  and  the  moon  .  .  .  and  on  the  rock,  grotesque  and 
darkly  clear,  a  crouching  figure — looking  down.  .  .  . 

A  curious  sound  broke  from  Spence's  throat.  He 
stooped  and  sprang.  But  quick  as  he  was,  the  figure  on 
the  rock  was  quicker.  It  slipped  aside.  Spence  heard  a 
guttural  exclamation  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  yellow 
face. 

'TiHo!'^ 

The  Chinaman  pulled  him  firmly  back  from  the  edge  of 
the  moss-covered  rock. 

"All  same  Li  Ho,"  he  said.  "You  come  click — but 
not  too  dam  click." 

•Tknow.    Where  is  he?" 

It  was  the  one  thing  which  held  interest  for  Benis 
Spence  now. 

Li  Ho  stepped  gingerly  to  the  edge  of  the  rounded 
rock.  In  the  clear  light,  Spence  could  see  how  the  moss 
had  been  scraped  from  the  margin. 

"Him  down  there,"  said  Li  Ho.  "Moon-devil  push 
'um.     Plenty  stlong  devil!"     Li  Ho  shrugged. 

Spence's  clenched  hands  relaxed. 

"Dead?"  he  asked  dully. 

"Heap  much  dead,"  said  Li  Ho.  "Oh,  too  much 
squash !"     He  made  a  gesture. 

Benis  was  not  quite  sure  what  happened  then.  He 
remembers  leaning  against   a  tree.      Presently  he   was 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  297 

aware  of  a  horrible  smell — the  smell  of  some  object  which 
Li  Ho  held  to  his  nostrils. 

"Plenty  big  smell,"  said  Li  Ho.    ''Make  'um  sit  up." 

Benis  sat  up. 

"Where  is "  he  began.    But  his  throat  closed  upon 

the  question.    He  could  not  ask. 

"Missy  in  tent,"  said  Li  Ho  stolidly.  "Missy  plenty 
tired.     Sleep  velly  good." 

Spence  tried  to  take  this  in  .  .  .  tent  .  .  .  sleep  .  .  . 

"Li  Ho  tell  missy  house  no  so-so,"  went  on  the  China- 
man, pressing  his  evil-smelling  salts  closer  to  his  victim^s 
face.  "Missy  say  'all  light' — sleep  plenty  well  in  tent; 
velly  fine  night." 

Benis  tried  feebly  to  push  the  abomination  away  from 
his  nose. 

"Desire  .  .  .  alive  ?"  he  whispered. 

"Oh  elite  so.  Velly  much.  Moon-devil  velly  smart  but 
Li  Ho  much  more  clever.    Missy  she  no  savey — all  light." 

Spence  began  to  laugh.  It  was  dangerous  laughter — 
or  so  at  least  Li  Ho  thought,  for  he  promptly  smothered 
it  with  his  "velly  big  smell."  The  measure  proved  effec- 
tive. The  professor  decided  not  to  laugh.  He  held 
himself  quiet  until  control  came  back  and  then  stood  up. 

"I  thought  she  was  dead,  Li  Ho,"  he  said. 

In  the  half  light  the  inscrutable  face  changed  ever  so 
little. 

"Li  Ho  no  let,"  said  the  Chinaman  simply.  "You 
better  now,  p'laps  ?"  he  went  on.  "We  go  catch  honor- 
able Boss  before  missy  wake."  Spence  nodded.  He  felt 
extraordinarily  tired.  But  it  seemed  that  tiredness  did 
not  matter,  would  never  matter.  The  empty  world  had 
become  warm  and  small  again.    Desire  was  safe. 

Together  he  and  Li  Ho  slid  and  scrambled  down  the 
mountain's  face,  by  ways  known  only  to  Li  Ho.     And 


298  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 


there,  on  a  strip  of  beach  left  clean  and  wet  by  the 
receding  tide,  they  found  the  dead  man.  Beside  him,  and 
twisted  beneath,  lay  the  green  umbrella. 

''How  did  it  really  happen,  Li  Ho?"  asked  Spence. 
Not  that  he  expected  any  information. 

''Moon-devil  velly  mad,"  said  Li  Ho.  "Honorable 
Boss  no  watch  step.    Moon-devil  push — too  bad !" 

"And  the  fight  in  the  kitchen?    And  on  the  trail?" 

Li  Ho  shook  his  head. 

"No  fight  anywhere,"  he  said  blandly. 

"And  this  long  rip  in  your  coat?" 

"Too  much  old  coat — catch  'um  in  bush,"  said  Li  Ho. 

So  when  they  lifted  the  body  and  it  was  found  that 
the  arm  beneath  the  torn  coat  was  useless,  Spence  said 
nothing.  And  somehow  they  managed  to  carry  the  dead 
man  home. 

It  was  dawn  when  they  laid  him  down.  Birds  were 
already  beginning  to  twitter  in  the  trees.  Desire  would 
be  waking  soon.  The  world  was  going  to  begin  all  over 
presently.  Spence  laid  his  hand  gently  on  the  Chinaman's 
injured  arm. 

"You  saved  her,  Li  Ho,*'  he  said.  "It  is  a  big  debt  for 
one  man  to  owe  another." 

The  Chinaman  said  nothing.  He  was  looking  at  the 
dead  face — a  curious  lost  look. 

"He  velly  good  man  one  time,"  said  Li  Ho.  "All  same 
before  moon-devil  catch  'um." 

"You  stayed  with  him  a  long  time,  Li  Ho.  You  were 
a  good  friend." 

Li  Ho  blinked  rapidly,  but  made  no  reply. 

"Will  you  come  with  us,  Li  Ho  ?" 

The  inscrutable,  oriental  eyes  looked  for  a  moment  into 
the  frank  eyes  of  the  white  man  and  then  passed  by  them 
to  the  open  door — to  the  dawn  just  turning  gold  above 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  299 

the  sea.     The  uninjured  hand  rose  and  fell  in  an  inde- 
scribable gesture. 

*'Li  Ho  go  home  now!" 
•    The  words  seemed  to  flutter  out  like  birds  into  some 
vast  ocean  of  content. 


XXXVIII 

T^ESIRE  was  waking.  She  had  slept  without  a  dream 
^^  and  woke  wonderingly  to  the  shadows  of  dancing 
leaves  upon  the  white  canvas  above  her.  It  was  a  long 
time  since  she  had  slept  in  a  tent — a  lifetime.  She  felt 
very  drowsy  and  stupid.  The  brooding  sense  of  fatality 
which  had  made  her  return  so  dreamlike  still  numbed  her 
senses.  She  had  come  back  to  the  mountain,  as  she  had 
known  she  must  come.  And,  curiously  enough,  in  re- 
turning she  had  freed  herself.  In  coming  back  to  what 
she  had  hated  and  feared  she  had  faced  a  bogie.  It 
would  trouble  her  no  more.  For  all  that  she  had  lost 
she  had  gained  one  thing.  Freedom.  But  even  freedom 
did  not  thrill  her.     She  was  too  horribly  tired. 

Idly  she  let  her  thought  drift  over  the  details  of  her 
home-coming.  Li  Ho  had  been  so  surprised.  His  con- 
sternation at  seeing  her  had  been  comic.  But  he  had 
asked  no  questions,  and  had  given  her  breakfast  in  hos- 
pitable haste.  In  the  cottage  nothing  was  altered.  It 
was  as  if  she  had  been  away  overnight.  And  against 
this  changelessness  she  knew  herself  changed.  She  was 
outside  of  it  now.    It  could  never  prison  her  again. 

While  she  drank  Li  Ho's  coffee,  Dr.  Farr  had  come  in. 
He  had  been  told,  she  supposed,  of  her  return,  for  he 
showed  no  surprise  at  seeing  her — had  greeted  her  ab- 
sently— and  sat  for  a  time  without  speaking,  his  long 
hands  folded  about  the  green  umbrella.  This,  too,  was 
familiar  and  added  to  the  ^'yesterday"  feeling.  He  had 
not  changed.  It  was  her  attitude  toward  him  which  was 
different.  The  curious  fear  of  him,  which  she  had  hidden 
under  a  mask  of  indifference,  was  no  longer  there  to  hide. 

300 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  301 

Even  the  fact  of  his  relationship  had  lost  its  sharp  sig- 
nificance. She  was  done  with  the  thing  which  had  made 
it  poignant.  Parentage  no  longer  mattered.  So  little 
mattered  now. 

She  had  spoken  to  him  cheerfully,  ignoring  his  mood, 
and  he  had  replied  irritably,  like  a  bad-tempered  child 
who  resents  some  unnecessary  claim  upon  its  attention. 
But  she  did  not  observe  him  closely.  Had  she  done  so, 
she  might  have  noticed  a  curious  glazing  of  the  eyes  as 
they  lifted  to  follow  her — shining  and  depthless  like  blue 
steel. 

"I  do  not  expect  to  stay  long,  father,"  she  told  him. 
"Only  until  I  find  something  to  do.  I  am  a  woman  now, 
you  know,  and  must  support  myself." 

She  spoke  as  one  might  speak  to  a  child,  and  he  had 
nodded  and  mumbled :  "Yes,  yes  ...  a  woman  now 
.  .  .  certainly."  Then  he  had  begun  to  laugh.  She  had 
always  hated  this  silent,  shaking  laugh  of  his.  Even  now 
it  stirred  something  in  her,  something  urgent  and  afraid. 
But  she  was  too  tired  to  be  urged  or  frightened.  She 
refused  to  listen. 

In  the  afternoon  she  had  sat  out  in  the  sun,  not  think- 
ing, willing  to  be  rested  by  the  quiet  and  drugged  by  the 
scent  of  pine  and  sea.  To  her  had  come  Sami,  appearing 
out  of  nothing  as  by  magic,  his  butter-colored  face  aglow 
with  joy.  Sami  had  almost  broken  up  her  weary  calm. 
He  was  so  glad,  so  warm,  so  alive,  so  little !  But  even 
while  he  snuggled  against  her  side,  her  Self  had  drifted 
away.  It  would  not  feel  or  know.  It  was  not  ready  yet 
for  anything  save  rest. 

Li  Ho  had  made  luncheon,  Li  Ho  had  brought  tea. 
Otherwise  Li  Ho  had  left  her  alone.  About  one  thing 
only  had  he  been  fussy.  She  must  not  sleep  in  her  old 
room.     It  was  not  aired.     It  needed  "heap  scrub."     He 


302  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

had  arranged,  he  said,  a  little  tent  "all  velly  fine."  De- 
sire was  passive.    She  did  not  care  where  she  slept. 

When  bedtime  had  come,  Li  Ho  had  taken  her  to  the 
tent.  It  was  cozily  hidden  in  the  bush  and,  as  he  had 
promised,  quite  comfortable.  But  she  thought  his  man- 
ner odd. 

"Are  you  nervous,  Li  Ho  ?"  she  asked  with  a  smile. 

The  Chinaman  blinked  rapidly,  disdaining  reply.  But 
in  his  turn  asked  a  question — his  first  since  her  arrival. 
Had  the  honorable  Professor  Spence  received  an  insig- 
nificant parcel?  Desire  replied  vaguely  that  she  did  not 
know.    What  was  in  the  parcel  ? 

"Velly  implotant  plasel,"  said  Li  Ho  gravely.  "Hon- 
orable husband  arrive  plenty  click  when  read  um  insides." 

There  had  seemed  no  sense  to  this.  But  Desire  did  not 
argue.  She  did  not  even  attend  very  carefully  when  Li 
Ho  added  certain  explanations.  He  had  found,  it  ap- 
peared, some  papers  which  had  belonged  to  her  mother 
and  had  felt  it  his  duty  to  send  them  on. 

"Where  did  you  find  them,  Li  Ho?" 

Instead  of  answering  this,  Li  Ho,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  had  produced  from  some  recess  of  his  old  blue 
coat  an  envelope  which  he  handled  with  an  air  of  awed 
respect. 

"Li  Ho  find  more  plasel  too.  Pletty  soon  put  um  back. 
Honorable  Boss  indulge  in  fit  if  missing." 

"Which  means  that  it  belongs  to  father  and  that  you 
have — borrowed  it?"  suggested  she,  delicately. 

"No  b'long  him.  B'long  you,"  said  Li  Ho,  thrusting 
the  packet  into  her  hand.  And,  as  if  fearful  of  being 
questioned  further,  he  had  taken  the  candle  and  departed. 

"Leave  me  the  candle,  Li  Ho,"  she  had  called  to  him. 
But  he  had  not  returned.  And  a  candle  is  a  small  matter. 
She  was  used  to  undressing  in  the  dusk.  Almost  at  once 
she  had  fallen  asleep. 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  303 

Now  in  the  morning,  as  she  lay  and  watched  the 
shadows  of  the  leaves,  she  remembered  that,  though  he 
had  taken  the  candle,  he  had  left  the  letter.  It  lay  there  on 
the  strip  of  old  carpet  beside  her  cot.  Desire  withdrew  her 
^.ttention  from  the  leaves  and  picked  it  up.  With  a  little 
thrill  she  saw  that  Li  Ho  had  been  right.  It  was  her 
own  name  which  was  written  across  the  envelope  .  .  . 

Her  own  name,  faded  yet  clear  on  a  wrinkled  envelope 
yellowed  at  the  edges.  The  seal  of  the  envelope  had  been 
broken.  .  .  . 

Sometime  in  her  childhood  Desire  must  have  seen  her 
mother's  writing.  Conscious  memory  of  it  was  gone,  but 
in  the  deeper  recesses  of  her  mind  there  must  have  lin- 
gered some  recognition  which  quickened  her  heart  at 
sight  of  it. 

A  letter  from  the  dead?  No  wonder  Li  Ho  had 
handled  it  with  reverence.  With  trembling  fingers  the 
girl  drew  it  from  its  violated  covering. 

"Little  Desire" — the  name  lay  like  a  caress — ''if  you 
read  this  it  will  be  because  I  am  not  here  to  tell  you. 
And  there  is  no  one  else.  My  great  dread  is  the  dread  of 
leaving  you.  If  I  could  only  look  into  the  future  for  one 
mofnent,  and  see  you  in  it,  safe  and  happy,  nothing  else 
would  matter.  But  I  am  afraid.  I  have  always  been  too 
much  afraid.  You  are  not  like  me.  I  try  to  remember 
that.  You  are  like  your  grandfather.  He  was  a  brave 
man.  His  eyes  were  grey  like  yours.  He  died  before 
you  were  born  and  he  never  knew  that  Harry  was  not 
really  my  husband.  I  did  not  know  it  either,  then.  You 
see,  he  had  a  wife  in  England.  I  suppose  he  thought  it 
did  not  matter.  But  when  he  die  a,  it  did  matter.  There 
was  no  one  then  on  whom  either  you  or  I  had  any  claim. 
I  should  have  been  brave  enough  to  go  on  by  myself. 
But  I  was  never  brave. 


304  THE    WINDOW-GAZER 

''It  was  then  tlmt  Dr.  Farr,  who  had  been  kind  through 
Harris  illness ,  asked  me  to  marry  him.  He  was  a  mid- 
dle-aged man.  He  said  he  would  take  care  of  us  both. 
You  were  just  three  montJis  old. 

'7  know  now  that  I  made  a  terrible  mistake.  He  is 
not  kind.  He  is  not  good.  I  am  terrified  of  him.  But 
the  fear  which  makes  me  brave  against  other  fears  is  the 
thought  of  leaving  you.  I  try  to  remember  my  father. 
If  I  had  been  like  him  I  could  have  worked  for  you  and 
we  might  have  been  happy.  Perhaps  my  mother  was 
timid.     I  don't  remember  her. 

^7  don't  know  what  to  put  in  this  letter j  or  how  to  make 
you  understand.  I  loved  your  father.  He  was  not  a  bad 
man.  I  am  sure  he  never  harmed  anyone.  He  would 
have  taken  care  of  me  all  his  life.  But  he  didn't  live.  It 
was  Dr.  Farr  who  found  out  about  the  English  wife. 
He  pointed  out  that  you  would  have  no  name  and  offered 
to  give  you  his. 

''I  did  you  a  great  wrong.  His  name — better  far  to 
have  no  iiame  than  his!  I  am  sure  it  is  a  wicked  name. 
So  I  want  you  to  know  that  it  is  not  yours.  You  have 
no  name  by  law,  but  I  think,  now,  tliat  there  are  worse 
things.  Your  father's  name  was  Harry  Strangeways. 
His  people  are  English,  a  good  family  but  very  strict.  I 
could  not  let  them  know  about  us.  They  would  never 
have  forgiven  Harry.  It  woidd  have  been  like  slander- 
ing the  dead.  Do  not  blame  him,  little  Desire,  for  I  am 
sure  he  meant  to  do  right.  He  was  always  light-hearted. 
And  kind — always  kind.  Your  laugh  is  just  like  his. 
Think  of  us  both,  if  you  can,  with  kindness — your  un^ 
happy  Mother." 

Long-  before  Desire  came  to  the  end  of  the  crumpled 
sheets  her  tears  were  falling  hot  and  thick  upon  them. 
Tears  which  she  had  not  been  able  to  shed  for  her  own 


THE    WINDOW-GAZER  305 

broken  hope  came  easily  now  for  this  long  vanished  sor- 
row. Her  mother !  How  pitifully  bare  lay  the  shortened 
story  of  that  smothered  life.  Desire's  heart,  so  much 
stronger  than  the  heart  of  her  who  gave  it  birth,  filled 
with  a  great  tenderness.  She  saw  herself  once  more  a 
little  frightened  child.  She  felt  again  that  sense  of 
Presence  in  the  room.  And  knew  that,  for  a  child's 
sake,  a  gentle  soul  had  not  made  haste  to  happiness. 

For  that  gay  scamp,  her  father,  Desire  had  no  tear. 
And  no  condemnation.  Her  mother  had  loved  him.  Her 
gentleness  had  seen  no  flaw.  Lightly  he  had  taken  a 
woman  to  protect  through  life — to  neglect,  as  lightly,  the 
little  matter  of  living.  Desire  let  his  picture  slip  unhin- 
dered from  her  mind. 

There  was  relief,  though,  in  the  knowledge  that  she 
owed  no  duty  there — or  here.  The  instinct  which  had 
always  balked  at  kinship  with  the  strange  old  man  who 
had  held  her  youth  in  bondage  had  not  been  the  abnormal 
thing  she  once  had  feared  it  was.  She  had  fought 
through — but  it  was  good  to  know  that  she  had  fought 
with  Nature,  not  against  her.  At  least  she  could  start 
upon  her  new  life  clean  and  free.  .  .  . 

A  pity,  though,  that  life  should  lie  like  ashes  on  her 
lips! 


XXXIX 

NEVERTHELESS,  and  despite  the  taste  of  ashes, 
one  must  Hve  and  take  one's  morning  bath.  De- 
sire thought,  not  without  pleasure,  of  the  pool  beneath 
the  tree.  Wrapped  in  her  blue  kimona,  her  leaf-brown 
hair  braided  tightly  into  a  thick  pigtail  and  both  hands 
occupied  with  towels  and  soap,  she  pushed  back  the  tent 
flap  and  stepped  out  into  the  green  and  gold  of  morning. 

The  first  thing  she  saw  was  Benis  sitting  on  a  fallen 
log  and  waiting.  He  had  been  waiting  a  long  time.  In 
the  flashing  second  before  he  saw  her.  Desire  had  time 
to  draw  one  long  breath  of  wonder.  After  that,  there  was 
no  time  for  anything.  The  professor's  patience  suddenly 
gave  out. 

He  had  intended  to  begin  with  an  explanation.  But  it 
is  a  poor  lover  who  can't  find  a  better  beginning  than  that 
.  .  .  And  what  could  Desire  do,  with  towels  in  one  hand 
and  soap  in  the  other  ? 

When  he  released  her  at  last,  blushing  and  glowing, 
it  was  to  find  the  most  urgent  need  for  explanation  past. 

*Tdiots,  weren't  we?"  asked  Benis  happily. 

Desire  agreed.     But  her  eyes  questioned. 

'There  isn't  any  Mary,  you  see,"  he  told  her  hastily. 
"Never  was;  never  could  be.  (Let  me  take  your  soap?) 
Mary  was  a  figment — ^mortal  mind,  you  know.  Your 
fault  entirely." 

"But " 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  I  did  it  to  please  you.  I  am  a 
truthful  person,  really.  (Let  me  take  your  towels?) 
And  I  thought  you  had  more  sense — Oh,  Desire,  darling!'' 

*^But " 

306 


THE     WINDOW-GAZER  307 

*'0h,  I  was  a  fool,  too.  I  admit  it.  I  thought  you 
were  fretting  about  John.  Fancy  your  fretting  about 
dear  old  Bones !  I  thought — oh  well,  it  seems  silly  enough 
now.  But  the  day  I  found  you  crying  over  his  photo- 
graph  '^ 

"Her  photograph,"  interposed  Desire  shakily. 

"Eh?" 

*'It  was  Mary's  photograph.    I  found  it  on  your  desk.*' 

"It  was  John's,  when  I  saw  it." 

"Yes — but  you  didn't  see  it  soon  enough." 

"Oh — you  young  deceiver!  But  once  you  went  to 
John's  office  and  came  away  smiling." 

"Why  not?  I  went  to  find  Mary.  And  I  didn't  find 
her.    When  the  real  Mary  came " 

"There  is  no  real  Mary." 

"Oh,  Benis— isn't  she?" 

"She  positively  isn't." 

"But  you  said " 

"I  lied,  m.y  dear.    It  was  a  jolly  good  lie,  though." 

"A  he  is  never " 

"No,  but  this  one  was.  You  wouldn't  have  married  me 
if  I  hadn't.  And  you  told  a  whopper  yourself  once. 
You  said  that  children "  but  Desire  refused  to  listen. 

Later  on,  as  they  sat  together  on  the  log  with  a  squirrel 
hiding  provender  in  one  of  Desire's  slippers  and  another 
chattering  agreeably  in  Benis's  ear,  he  told  her  briefly  the 
history  of  the  night.  That  is,  he  told  her  all  that  he 
thought  it  needful  she  should  know.  Of  the  scraps  of 
diary  in  his  pocket  he  said  nothing, — some  day,  perhaps, 
when  she  had  become  used  to  happiness,  and  the  cottage 
on  the  mountain  was  far  away.  But  now — of  what  use 
to  drag  out  the  innermost  horror  or  add  an  awful  query 
to  her  memory  of  her  mother's  death  ?  The  old  man  was 
gone — let  the  past  go  with  him. 

Desire  listened  silently.    Sorrow  she  could  not  pretend. 


3o8  THE     WINDOW-GAZER 

The  suddenness  of  the  end  was  shocking  and  death  is 
ever  awful  to  the  young.  But  the  eyes  she  hfted  to  her 
husband,  though  solemn,  were  not  sad.  When  he  had 
finished,  she  slipped  into  his  hand,  with  new,  sweet  shy- 
ness, the  letter  which  lifted  forever  the  shadow  of  the 
dead  man  from  across  their  path. 

Benis  Spence  read  it  with  deep  thankfulness.  Fate 
was  indeed  making  full  amends.  No  dread  inheritance 
now  need  narrow  the  way  before  them.  It  meant — he 
stole  a  glance  at  Desire  who  was  industriously  emptying 
her  slipper.  The  curve  of  her  averted  cheek  was  faintly 
flushed.     The  professor's  whimsical  smile  crept  out. 

"Let  me!''  he  said.  He  took  her  slipper  from  her 
and,  kneeling,  felt  her  breath  like  flowers  brush  his  cheek. 

*Tt  was  a  whopper,  Benis,"  Desire  whispered. 

Looking  up,  he  saw  the  open  gladness  of  her  face. 


THE  END 


